


When All Else Fails

by erhea



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BAMF Sansa Stark, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Stannis Baratheon Lives, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:47:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24865534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erhea/pseuds/erhea
Summary: The world burns, a plan is made - more of an idea, the past is undone and the fate of Westeros rests on two weary souls.
Relationships: Cassana Baratheon/Steffon Baratheon, Jon Snow & Sansa Stark, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Lyarra Stark/Rickard Stark, Ned Stark & Sansa Stark, Renly Baratheon/Loras Tyrell, Robert Baratheon & Ned Stark, Stannis Baratheon/Sansa Stark
Comments: 184
Kudos: 438





	1. An Ending and A Beginning

She never thought that death could be as easy as falling asleep. And though she did spend most of her life contemplating it, even wishing for it at some point or another, she never would have thought that this is how it would truly end. 

The sweet taste lingered on her lips, mingling with the scorching taste of burned wood and stone, as the heat of the fire was rapidly and steadfastly approaching. Red and back, how very  _ Targaryen  _ of her…

It did not matter now. Not now when all she ever loved and cared for was long dead and gone. 

Let it burn, she idly thought to herself, as she felt her body relax, lulled to sleep by the soothing sound of the cracking fire. Let Winterfell burn, and she along with it, and perhaps she would be allowed to finally, finally find the peace she longed for, thirsted for, ever since her father's head landed at her feet in front of the Great Sept of Baelor.

She was tired, oh so very tired, and dying was easy... As easy as falling into a deep sweet sleep.

Seconds turned to minutes, and she was still breathing, but only so. The sturdy trunk of the ancient weirwood tree behind her was roughly biting into her ribs, keeping her slightly alert and preventing her from truly surrendering to the fate she stubbornly chose for herself.

Winterfell was burning all around her, walls crumbling to the blazing inferno lapping at its feet and she felt a smile blooming on her red painted lips.

All too sudden, darkness crept in and surrounded her, carrying her down, in its dark and heavy depths. And yet. And yet...

_ The people in front of the Great Sept yelled in anger as Joffrey held out his hand to speak. She was angry, sad, and hopeful as her red and puffy eyes took in the sight of her father kneeling in the yard.  _

_ "My mother wishes me to let Lord Eddard join the Night's Watch... stripped of all titles and powers, he would serve the realm in permanent exile. And my Lady Sansa has begged mercy for her father. But they have the soft hearts of women... so long as I'm your King treason shall never go unpunished! Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!" _

_ She heard her other-self screaming herself raw, begging for mercy. But as before, mercy did not come. Not for her father, and not for her. And his head rolled down, down, down as the crowd yelled and Joffrey laughed and laughed and laughed. _

The darkness swirled and grew heavier. More ash gathered in her mouth as her throat constricted and then relaxed. 

_ She was in the throne room now, hearing the news of her mother and brother's deaths. Her hopes and her dreams of rescue crashed and burned on the marble floor. She was alone, with no friends, married to a Lannister of all things. She could not even mourn her dead family.  _

Stupid little bird.

And then darkness flared and pulled at her once more. 

_ Joffrey, Dontos, Littlefinger, and Ramsey followed fast. Flashes of old wounds that never did truly heal, no matter the flowing of time. _

Stupid little bird. Stupid, stupid girl, with stupid dreams and so wholly unprepared for the harsh truths of the real world. She blamed her mother for sheltering her, she blamed her father for his unreasonable moral compass and foolish dreams of honor, she blamed her septa and her maester for her lack of real education, but most of all she blamed herself, for not being good enough, for not learning fast enough, for not being strong enough.

_ “I am a slow learner. It’s true. But I learn” _

She snorted as she remembered those words, spoken a lifetime ago. She never did learn, not truly. Not when it really mattered.

_ And then dragons, and fire and blood, and madness. The dead were rising and falling but not for long.  _

_ A brother, not a brother anymore but a raven.  _

_ Another brother turned into cousin, exiled in the unforgiving Nord.  _

_ A sister lost to the seas of the West.  _

_ A hollow crown for her…. Queen of the fucking North. _

  
  


“Do you see now?” the darkness asked in a weary, timeless voice. 

But it wasn’t a voice, not really, but so much more. 

So hard to comprehend and yet so easy. It reminded her of the rustling of leaves on a windy day, of the rays of the sun caressing her face in the summer, of the smell of freshly baked bread, and the refreshing taste of fresh cold water enriched with a hint of lemon.

“Do you understand?” 

She tried to speak only to find herself unable. What was she supposed to understand? She was already dead or dying, she unflinchingly noted to herself. Burning in the godswood of her home, burning all that she ever loved, unwilling to let it fall into the hands of the true frost.

“Who, no, what are you?” she croaked, the metallic taste of blood in her mouth making her wince.

“Oh child, we are what we are, what we have always been, what we always will be”. 

It came from within and from above, a rustling of leaves, a quiet murmur of a water spring, the soft fast paces of a deer fleeing in the nigh. Not quite spoken, not quite unspoken, but heard and strangely felt, all the same.

“Do you understand?” it insisted. Searching for something deep within her. Something she feared would never be found.

She was not sure of anything anymore. She had seen too much, she had tried for too long to keep the pieces of her broken self together. But the glue that held them there was long gone.

_ The feel of calloused hands holding her tight to a broad chest. The soft pressure of a kiss, as light as the cooling breeze on a hot summer’s day. The beating of another heart below hers, so dear and so very much beloved. The sound of the hooves of his horse carrying him away. _

“Do you see?” The voices soldiered on, unrelenting, like waves crashing upon some distant shores.

_ A dagger glinted in the darkness, Valyrian steel meeting the King of the Night. Shards of ice spreading into the winds and falling into the snow. Small flecks of snow drifting away into the night, melting into water, seeping into the earth and flowing backward, to the North. _

__ How strange… _Oh…_

“It wasn’t over” she murmured, sudden understanding lightning her ice-blue eyes.

“No, it wasn’t.” she received in return. “It was never _her_ destiny to end the night. The Prophecy was not _hers_ ”. 

“Then who’s?” she inquired, although she had the feeling she had known all along. From the very beginning to the very bitter end.

_ A bed of blood and roses _ .  _ The wailing of a newborn and the whisper of a promise, hauntingly familiar. “If Robert finds out, he'll kill him. You know he will. You have to protect him. Promise me, Ned. Promise me.” _

But of course. 

How did she not see it? Where did it go wrong?

_ An innocent baby ignored, shunned, and kept away when he should have been loved. A promise betrayed as the boy grew and was sent to the Wall.  _

_ "Promise me, Ned. Promise me." _

_ A stag marrying a lion. The lion having cubs with no stag in them.  _

_ A falcon discovering the truth, a fish conspiring with a mockingbird. A mockingbird planning the death of the wolf.  _

_ A woman in a red dress arriving at the old seat of the dragons. Sweet false words whispered, dark blood magic, shadows, and a brother dead before his time. And then the burnings and a king, not yet a king, lost in madness and deceit. A daughter killed in cold blood, a sort of siege lost, and then understanding in front of an imminent not so imminent death. All for a duty that should never have been duty in the first place. Forgiveness, denial, healing, and acceptance, and then love, oh so much love... _

“Do you see, little wolf? Do you understand?”

And somehow she did. She did understand it all, the where and the how. The wrongness of it all.

“Would you change it all, little wolf? Would you change it all, if you could?” the voices continued, ever so low, ever so faint, like silk cloth fluttering in the wind. 

Yes, she thought. Yes, she thought, with a sudden conviction of clarity.

_ The weirwood tree above, with its blood-red eyes.  _

_ The calmness she always felt when praying in the woods, as opposed to her mother’s sept.  _

_ The conviction of something, something grander, and bigger, and more encompassing existing out there, somewhere, that offered her comfort in her darkest hours. Always there, just out of the reach of her hands, but never quite enough. _

Yes, she suddenly understood with such clarity. 

The voices she was hearing were those of the Gods of Old. The Gods of her forefathers, the gods of the trees with leaves and eyes of blood, faces unseen and yet so very _clear_.

“I would if I could, but I am not enough, not strong enough, not wise enough, not good enough. I do not even know where to begin…” she said, softly, sorrow and hope burning deep in her soul. 

And through it all, one thought was more present, more poignant, more real than any thought before. She would see him again, her husband. Love him again for longer than before, fiercer than before… 

_ Her steadfast husband, facing the rage of Night, promising to return, to come back to her. _

And the pain was unbearable once more, even here and now, at the end of it all. As her whole world crumbled to ash her heart continued to yearn, to bleed for him.

_ His horse galloping away as she stood and watched him leaving her, from the ramparts of her home. _

“We will provide the knowledge, little wolf. But things will never be the same again” the leaves, the red leaves of the weirwood, whispered.

Could she risk it? Would he love her again, were she to change their history of horror and loss?

The thought of never being loved by him again was raw and stifling. Ten times worse than seeing her father’s head rolling at her feet. A hundred times worse than being beaten bloody by Joffrey and his Kingsguard. A thousand times worse than being raped and tortured by Ramsey. It was beyond words and feelings, unbearable in its intensity. Her breath hitched and her vision tunneled as blood mingled with salt in the snow below.

“We will not send you alone, dear child” the voices spoke again, preventing her from being lost to despair. “He has never left you, not really, the stubborn man” they continued, amused exasperation in their tone.

“Oh...” she exhaled, softly, brokenly. And yet. And yet she still dared to hope...

“But changes must be made. Or, better said undone. Are you ready to accept the consequences, little wolf, even if that means that there will no longer be a Sansa Stark anymore? At least not the one that you are, the one you know?”

No Sansa Stark… 

That does not sound so awful. Not really.

No Sansa Stark means no dead Lady. 

No Sansa Stark means no one to stop her father from leaving King’s Landing. No one to betray him to the Queen. 

No Sansa Stark means no engagement to Joffrey, no wedding to Ramsey, no Queen in the North… 

No Sansa Start, it was such an easy decision to make, as easy as breathing.

“I am ready” she confirmed. Steel in her voice, her heart bleeding a little more. Is there anything left to give, she briefly wondered, before undoing herself from the tapestry of life forevermore. “I am ready to never have been born.”

“But that’s not how it goes, little wolf. That’s not how it goes at all.” The leaves rustled and trembled as the darkness crept in once more. 

“And as a last warning, little wolf, beware of the Fire God, Sansa of House Stark, firstborn daughter of Rickard and Lyarra Stark, kissed by fire and blessed by the Gods of Old. May your journey bring you happiness and an end to the long night.”

And silence finally, finally fell, as the world went up in flames.


	2. Born Anew

“A man may be born, but in order to be born he must first die, and in order to die he must first awake” Carl Sandburg

  
  


She was floating, encompassed in an ocean of silence and warmth, the gentle soothing motion of the waves healing the wrongs of the past

She did not think, though on some level she was highly aware that she existed. That she was there, somewhere safe, where no hurt or sorrow could reach her.

She did not need to eat. She felt always full, although she briefly wondered why it was so. She remembered the taste of food - the need for it when hunger struck, but there was no need now. And the mere thought of food, of taste and hunger, soon drifted away. 

And she was calm again, at peace, as she drifted away.

The ocean of calmness she existed in, was not infinite but it did not fill finite either. It just was. 

Sometimes, if she stretched enough, something prevented her from doing too much, from going too far, as if there was no place left to go to. But she did not feel imprisoned, she felt safe and warm. Had she ever felt this way before?

She floated. For how long, she did not know. The concept of time kept escaping her, her mind unwilling to focus for too long.

Then something happened, the land shifted and the ocean shook and diminished drop by drop, like water springing out of the earth. It was the first time she felt any discomfort, and it only grew as she was squeezed, jostled and pushed. And yet, she was unafraid. 

Cold air hit her body after a time - she could not say if it was long or short. And as she felt arms cradling her, she opened her eyes but she could not see, not really, not truly. Faint shadows of light danced around her, without taking any solid form. She closed her eyes then and listened.

Harsh breaths and panting and then a voice:

“A daughter M’Lady”

She tried to say something but the only sound that escaped was that of a faint whimper. _Oh!_

She tried to make sense of the idea that was there, just out of reach, so unbelievable and so hard to wrap her mind around. _This could not, could not be!_

Some piece a cloth - damp, she noted, was used to wipe her clean. Her face and then her body, it’s rough fabric on her tender skin making her wince and whimper in protest. 

Hands shifted, and then another warm body, the smell of sweat mingling with an instinctive feeling of safety. It wasn’t the same peace given to her by the ocean, but it was similar, and also so much more. More real, she realized with each breath she took, feeling her lungs fill and ache. She was alive and not alone anymore! And wasn’t that a wondrous thought? Alive and _oh! Oh!_

A _newborn_ then, a babe born anew.

_So that’s why they meant_ , she concluded, drowsy and tired, while closing her eyes and accepting the embrace of sleep.

Being born again was _exhausting_.

It wasn’t hard to accept being nursed, cleaned, and cared for. Although, some part of her rebelled, finding it utterly _humiliating_ to depend on others again, to suckle, to have her soiled underclothes changed. Another part of her, somewhat larger, shouted at her that having a 30-year-old mind in a several days old body was bordering on insane. It should not be like this, babies should not remember being old and able to do so much more, be so much more. Her whole spectrum of existence reduced to a purgatory of waiting with adults cooing at her and making clicking noises - what did they thought she was - a horse?

_Ignorance,_ she decided _, was bliss._

She tried to avoid thinking about it for too long, for fear of truly losing her mind from the sheer insanity of it all. Not a hard feat, as she was _hungry_ all of the time and _exhausted_ for the rest.

So she _slept_ and _ate_ and _slept_ some more. Until one day the world exploded in light. More vivid than ever before. More alive than she remembered.

The first face she saw was that of her mother. Long and pale, with icy blue eyes alight with joy and happiness, long dark brown hair falling in untamed curls.

Others followed: her big brother Brandon with icy grey eyes, squinting at her from a chubby round face. Her brother Eddard - his face a little longer, his eyes of a dark grey, so solemn and yet so quiet at such an early age. Her father - she did not see him in the beginning, though she already knew his name. Rickard Stark. Warden of the North, burned alive with wildfire by the Mad King after he reached King’s Landing to ask for his daughter to be returned. But when she did - one late night, or was it early, she was struck by the righteousness of him. Her large but gentle father, rocking her asleep while whispering soft words of comfort _“My darling little girl”_. He had a long, stern face and the same dark eyes of her youngest brother, more wise and kind that she thought he would.

How strange it was, she mused, to be surrounded by so many ghosts of the past. Or was this the present and was the present her past? Or did her past turn present, and then her present turn past? It was unsettling at times, to live with all these ghosts turned into flesh and blood.

But even more strange was looking at her father, her old father, and trying to feel something but not feeling anything at all. He did not feel like her father. He did not look like her father. Her new father looked and felt more like her father than the old one was. She felt like she should be more upset by this bizarre situation, but somehow she wasn’t, it just _was._

There was no pain, when looking at her father of old, now her new brother. No hurt and no regret, just this strange feeling of fondness and reserve, an intrinsic warning that kept her from getting too attached, too close.

_Was this normal?_ She wondered more often than not, expecting to feel somewhat twisted and wrong. But there was no wrongness, no doubt, no confusion eating at her mind and heart, just a _knowing_ that everything would turn out alright...

_“This is part of the price”_ the voices of old whispered again in this new life. 

_And it’s alright_ she thought to herself, when awake during the long days and short nights. The price didn't seem high.

She tried to speak early, again, too early to form words. Her vocal cords were not really, not truly formed and the babbling she heard, she refused to acknowledge as hers. And so she stopped short, the skin of her face and neck grew warm.

_How embarrassing…_

“Aren’t you a quiet one” her mother’s kind, soft voice whispered with a hint of a smile, as she was being gently rocked. “Just like your brother Ned” were words she heard, before sleep embraced her again and again.

Time flew as it always does, at times slow and steady, at others fast and furious.

Her mind expanded, and so did the range of her emotions. She never tried to speak again - she did not see the need for it. What was there to say, at the beginning? Or afterwards? Or in-between? What would she, could she really say? And as days turned into months her silence became a habit, and the habit hard to break. It was better that way.

And then the whispers started. She heard them all the way, from the kitchen to the stables, all throughout the halls and hallways. They were always whispering, the servants, within the walls where winter fell. _Defective_ , they said. _Slow, dimwitted, strange_ \- the red wolf that did not speak, that did not crawl, that did not behave like a child usually behaved. This would have enraged her older self, she mused. But that self was dead and gone and she wasn’t a child, not anymore, not really, not where it _mattered_. And so she did nothing, said nothing, but followed them with her serious icy blue eyes. She could tell that it unnerved them, her eyes staring them down. And soon after, they turned away and the whispers stopped, replaced by looks of embarrassment and attempts of avoidance, whenever they were about to cross her way.

She did not play with dolls, preferring instead to toddle after her serious and wise father. 

He was bewildered at first, and servants were summoned to take her away. Back to her brothers, back to the room with all the children's toys and beds. Back to ignorance and innocence, that she had lost a long time away. But she stubbornly refused to be assigned to a room full of useless toys made of cloth and wood. Knowledge was power - a lesson hard-fought and truly learned. So she set her jaw in annoyance, grinding her teeth with a grimace - _such a hard thing to do whilst lacking a complete set of teeth;_ and slowly, stubbornly, made her way back on her unsteady two feet. Back to her father’s solar where she sat at his feet. Back and forth it went - again and again, until, with a sigh and a caress of her fiery curls, her father finally relented and let her do as she willed.

“You are a stubborn little thing, aren’t you?” he whispered, amusement shining deep within his dark grey eyes.

He was silent at first, those first couples of weeks. But then, as he slowly realized that she was paying more attention to him than to the toys scattered at her feet, he started to read to her reports of crops and taxes, complaints and incursions beyond the wall. He told her histories on occasion, of the kings of old, the one that built and the one that kneeled. Of dragon kings and queens. Of hands being changed in a faraway place, of the game being played by those who dared to play. She drank it all in, some of the new, some of the old, and so a habit took form, for her and for him. And it wasn’t so usual, not anymore for her to be found in his solar, seated on a small chair near his.

As her bond with her father increased and grew, her bond with her mother and brothers remained stagnant. She did not seek her mother as often as she did with the one of the past, perhaps because she was trying too hard to get her to speak.

“Say mama little one. Ma-ma” her mother tried, too much, continuously, but Sansa refused. She was not a child, _thank you very much_ , and her stubbornness grew. 

She remained silent, for what was there to tell?

“Say something, baby, please!” her mother's eye turned sad, then pleading, and then finally resigned. 

What was there to tell, she wondered, as the pleading grew rare and then stood still?

That the baby her mother carried would start the downfall of their house? 

That another one will follow, bringing death on its heels?

She did not think that she was even able to speak yet, without erring and saying too little and yet too much. Would she reveal the things to pass and things that maybe would not pass at all? Her sister’s and her brother’s birth followed by their mother’s death were written in the leaves above, fixed points in time. She knew it, as the leaves continued to rustle, to tremble and to murmur _“This is the price, little wolf, the price you agreed to pay”_. A soft gurgle of names, of deaths, longer than she hoped but shorter than before, names that were marked to die for others to be saved.

And so she kept silent. A silent child, learning and living at her father’s knees. And while her bond with her father deepeneth and grew, the fragile bond she had with her mother withered and died long before it even began to truly form.

Another turn of the month and her new sister was born. Loud and angry, with a head of brown locks so different from her own. And from the very beginning, it was quite obvious that her new sister was everything Sansa was not. Loud and brash, always the center of attention, learning to run before she could even walk. 

But Sansa did not mind, did not resent her as she would have done in the time before. But neither did she get close. Another death that was written in the stars above. Another death needed for life to thrive. Another price to be paid. More bitter than the last.

Twelve moons later and another brother arrived. Her new last brother Benjen, the final cub of the Stark pack. 

But this time the birth took its toll on their mother, and joy soon turned to sorrow as childbed fever drained her lifeforce away.

And as she approached the once vibrant woman, now lying still on the bed, her older brother’s sweaty hand held hers tightly - a lifeline through despair; she lightly touched her fingers to her mother’s sweaty brow and for the first time spoke.

“I am sorry, mother. Please forgive me and sleep well.”

  
  


Her voice was low, perhaps a little unsteady - clogged with unshed tears, but it honestly felt and true.

She heard a sharp intake of breath at her side - her mother’s eyes cleared for a moment in joy, before dimming once more. 

In the days that followed, grief seemed to swallow the halls and hallways of Winterfell. Her brothers were quiet, more so than before. Even her brash loud sister stood still, a testimony of the things to come, of the change in the wind.

There was no running on the corridors, no boisterous laughs, no clinking of wooden swords in the playroom, no joyful shouts of fierce battles, no dragon hunts. Even the whispers stopped for a while, as their entire world fell silent and still. 

Her father did not leave the solar, except for the funeral, drowning in grief and loss.

And so their frozen existence continued, and days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into moons. A moon passed and then another and another. And another after that last one still. 

There were no stories anymore, no reports read, no knowledge to be had in such a dark void, bereft of any trace of light.

Her younger siblings were cared for, that she knew, whilst the eldest three were allowed to run wild. Not that they did much running, they sat and thought and hoped for the clock to start turning, for their world to _move_ out of this devastating silent still.

_This will never do_ , she thought to herself in what felt like an eternity later. And once more she steeled herself, strengthening her spine, and bravely marched to her father's rooms.

She did not knock but slowly pushed the door and entered, shivering as her eyes adapted to the darkness within. Her father, good, and gentle, and true, was seated in his chair at his table, head bent, resting heavily in the cradle of his arms.

“Father” she whispered and she saw him startle - finally a reaction, the first hope of spring during a harsh winter, and her lips curled into a timid smile.“I want to learn how to read, write, and ride. And Ned should learn, too.” she continued softly but seriously.

His eyebrows rose in surprise, utter bewilderment etched in his red and swollen eyes.

“My little Sansa” he whispered a little awed. “My darling girl” he continued, as trembling hands inched towards her - ever so slowly, carefully tightening around her small frame and gathering her in a warm embrace.

“My precious little girl. Of course, of course, you will learn” he hoarsely whispered as his body trembled with emotion.

And something loosened in that very moment - in him, and perhaps in her; in that cocoon of warmth and tender but no less fierce love.

And again, just like that, life at Winterfell changed once more.

Some lessons were easy. 

Reading came naturally to her as she already knew how to read - long before she was even born. Lessons in courtesy, in manners, sewing, dancing, and singing. Unnecessary frivolities, so not needed in the wars to come. But lessons nonetheless, lessons a lady was required to learn. _How utterly unfair life was for women_ , she mused sometimes in the light of day, _to live in a world so ruthlessly ruled by men._ She thought, and planned, and listened to the song of leaves, the dance of the canopy of blood from the weirwood tree above.

Other lessons were hard, but not as hard as they could have been - had she started them from scratch. 

Her little chubby hands were no longer used to holding a feather, and the words she managed to write looked more like scratches of claws on dirt and stone.

And the riding… She never did like riding, although she had long ago acknowledged the necessity of good riding skills. Even on a small poney, she found the experience, the learning process, hard and painful. And at the end of each short lesson, her muscles ached and burned, but she refused to give up, to postpone, and so, she stubbornly soldiered on. It should get easier in time, she comforted herself during the nights. She would not, could not fail.

The old maester was shocked but all the same pleased, praising her ability and memory, calling her mind a precious treasure. He spoke to her father, insisting on giving her more advanced lessons, to challenge and expand her mind. _“It would be a waste to keep her ignorant, My Lord.”_ he insisted time and time again. And just like that, her father agreed. History and mathematics, science, basic healing, languages, and _strategy_ \- she absorbed it all, greedily, stubbornly, single-mindedly. 

And the whispers of the servants changed again… She was no longer dimwitted, but strange, unnatural, and odd. Too smart for her own good, as girls shouldn’t be so. The red she-wolf that read fluently at four, that studied histories in languages both common and those of the old world, that played with maps and Cyvasse boards instead of dolls made out of cloth.

And the years whirled and whirred and flew.

She grew surrounded by books, learning _diplomacy_ at her father’s knee. Learning to see and play the game from all angles, to plan 10 moves in advance, to learn and understand the goals of her intelligent father, of his drive to improve the life and standing of all those who called the North their home.

Long games of Cyvasse and long walks into the godswood- with its blood-stained leaves, her father by her side.

Long and fast rides in the forest, her elder brother at her heels.

Short nights with her quiet brother, reading in companionship. But never quite together. Never fully there...

Long bickering fights with her sister - one that reminded her so much of the other she held so dear. Bickering fights that should have long broken her heart, when feeling the smell of blood and roses that shrouded Lyanna whenever she was near.

Sometimes she read to her baby brother, gently caressing his chubby cheeks, as flashes of the Wall, of snow and ice, danced before her very eyes. _Fire and Ice. The Wall._ _Another fixed point in time._

And some years later, while the boys were learning how to fight in the courtyard below, training with blunt swords, the ever-present rustle of leaves, and the newly heard caw of a crow reminded her that _“Fighting could be learned by a girl, too”._

So, once more she marched to her father’s solar, determination turned to steel in her veins. She needed to make him understand, to make him see that learning to fight was imperative to her education too.

“Father” she stated, as soon as she entered and her eyes met his. “I want to learn how to fight, shoot an arrow, and throw knives. And Lyanna should learn, too”.

A look of incredulity spread across her father’s face.

“Sansa. You wish to do what, child?” he inquired, unable or unwilling to believe that what he heard was true.

“I want to learn how to fight, father. First how to shoot a bow and arrow, and then how to fight and throw knives. Lyanna should learn all of this, too” she continued, brows furrowed in concentration as she ticked the tasks off on her now slender fingers.

“But why would you do that? Isn’t it time for you to learn to sew or sing?” his right hand rose and moved in a circular but impatient motion. “Or play the harp or… I don’t know, dance?” he continued, unable to really file away her unusual request.

Her eyes zeroed on him, and her lips curled in distaste.

“To sew, father? To sing and dance? Please” she scoffed. “We already know how to do that, we don’t need to learn more! ”

He sighed and continued in his gravelly voice “I do not understand, my child, why? Why would you wish for this? Do you not feel safe?”

“Because a lady should know how to defend herself,” she interrupted, primly, mater of factly and straight to the point. “And the Mormonts _have been_ teaching their women for years _, all_ of this and so much more” she rushed breathlessly - before her father could say anything else.

“I see. But we are not bears, are we, my dear?” her father asked, a strange and knowing light entering his eyes.

“No, father, we are not bears, but wolves. And how is it proper for what the Mormons learn, the Starks to dismiss? Is the bear more fierce than the wolf?” she inquired, knowing that she had made her point and the fight was over before it truly began.

Her father laughed, deep and loud while watching her with twinkling eyes.

_Yes, the fight was won._

“Alright Sansa, you will have your lessons” he continued in between deep laughs.

“Lyanna should have them, too” she insisted, remembering a girl from another life ago, a girl so very similar who dreamt of wielding a sword.

He nodded then, her father, still so very much amused.

“I will speak with the master at arms and your lessons will start soon. Go and tell your sister.”

And she did.

Lyanna was incredulous at first and then excited. She blabbered and gushed, aglow with happiness. She would have loved for this to bring her closer to her new sister, but she _had_ to keep her distance, to turn her sister away. She resigned herself to watch as joy turned to confusion, to acceptance, and then defeat. Her heart was ice and steel by now, accustomed to observe as her sister and younger brothers grew closer still, while she remained a mere presence on the ramparts, just there but never fitting in.

_“This is the price, little wolf, the price you must pay. Be patient, be strong and stay safe”_

Learning to defend herself was exhausting and her life suddenly turned into a continuous state of hurt. Countless hours of physical exercise, repetitive movements that strained her muscles, and left her body feeling raw. Running, dodging, learning where to hit, and how, how to best keep a weapon hidden, how to extract it without a second thought, how to disarm an enemy, how to read intentions in their eyes, how to react - repetitive movements, over and over again, as new muscles formed where none existed before. How to properly nock an arrow, how to take aim, and shoot. How to wield a knife and how to efficiently dance with a spear in her arm.

_There is no substitute for getting punched in the face._ She bitterly thought the first time it had happened, as blood welled in her mouth, bitter and tangy. Her jaw hurt, but she did not shy away from spitting it all out. She bared her bloody teeth and with a furious snarl, she launched herself at her opponent, ready to answer, a fist for a fist, a drop of blood calling for more blood to be spilled.

She never would have dreamed that the little bird from so long ago would enjoy rolling around in the muck. Sweat mingled with dust and blood, bruises on her ribs and arms, while she held her attacker by the throat, knife glistening at his heart.

Knowledge was power, and what was fighting if not knowledge of a different type? _She would never be weak again_ , the wolf in her howled and snarled in the depths of her mind. And her skills grew and improved, by sheer force of will, pain ignored until it eventually diminished with each practiced blow.

And then she was 13 almost 14, and where did the time go? She was no longer a girl and not yet a woman. And the whispers of the leaves grew, stronger than ever before. _“It’s time, little wolf, it’s time to speak to your father”._

It’s time she mused, slightly bemused. Time for what exactly, she wondered one morning after waking in her rooms. What was she supposed to do or say, as to not seem legitimately insane? What was her father planning, she asked herself. What would I do? And suddenly she knew, as fear gripped her heart, all-encompassing and clear - he wouldn’t, would he? He wouldn’t send her away!

She knew that the political climate in the kingdom was dire, as the king’s mind descended in madness a little more with each passing day. She understood from her talks with her father and elder brother that something must be done and _soon_. The idea of a rebellion or that of a coup was nascent, as plots were being hatched and killed. But she also knew that there wasn’t yet a clear course of action, not yet, as it was still too soon. 

_Connections, outside of the Nord. A betrothal then,_ her mind supplied the answer, _but to whom?_

She rose from the chair, placed in front of the fire, anger running through her veins. _Out of the question_ , she seethed eyes narrowed in disgust. She refused to accept, she refused to _submit_ herself to _anyone's_ will. 

_Unless… Unless…_

_Dark brows furrowed deep in thought._

_Calloused fingers ghosting over her body._

_Sweet, unsure kisses, growing bold while a heart kept beating - steadfast and true, underneath her fingertips._

_A vow shared, a promise…_

Memories locked in the depths of her soul spilled over, wave after wave of pain and loss. And she felt her whole world tremble and shake as air escaped her and she choked. Her knees buckled, hitting the unforgiving marble floor below, hand grasping at her throat. She stuffed her fist in her mouth, as the desire to scream, and rage and bite grew strong.

_“We will not send you alone, little wolf”_ she remembered. 

_“He has never left you, not really, the stubborn man”._

These were her _memories_ , how could she have forgotten them?

She smiled through her tears as her heart clenched - afraid to hope, to dare, to believe that it could ever be true. 

And yet, _and yet_ , wasn’t she _here_ , now, when all hope had been lost? 

The Sansa that chirped and curtsied in a cage of gold, the Sansa that learned too little and too late, _wasn’t she long gone?_

_This Sansa_ was quiet but bold. _This Sansa_ knew what she wanted and what to do to reach this new life’s end goals. 

The scars of the past were still there, muted - not completely erased, but more of an afterthought. An almost wiped out a reminder to never look back but to look towards the future and move on.

She rose to her feet and sprayed some water on her face, erasing the trace of tears and despair. And as if in a dream, barely remembered, she examined herself in the looking glass on the wall above. The image that looked back was tall and proud, with tumbling soft waves of fiery red hair. White skin, rosy cheeks, a sharp jaw with a hint of a purplish bruise where it rose to join her right ear. Her cheekbone was high - a little sharper than before; her eyebrows were arched and thin - just as before. Her eyes, though, her icy blue eyes of the same color as the sky above, were so very different from those she had before. They were full of knowledge that looked wiser than they ought. She hadn’t changed that much, she mused, she still looked like herself - and wasn’t this a little odd? That so little of her was Tully and so much was from the Starks of old? 

  
  


But she was not the same, not quite, not truly. Not where it mattered, she was not. _This_ _Sansa_ would not sell herself, would not compromise her soul. She will make her father _see,_ as she _had_ done before.

She turned and left her chambers, gliding to her father’s solar, all poise and grace. Quiet conviction and determination etched on her face. _She will succeed_ , her father was not an unreasonable man. The least he would do was to _listen_ to her words.

She knocked on the heavy wooden door and entered what had, in time, become their sanctuary: her father’s solar.

“Father” she began, voice steady and clear. “I need to know what plans you have made for me”

Her father looked at her, eyebrows raised in surprise. He nodded, gaze searching, scrutinizing her face, taking in with a knowing smile the stubborn set of her jaw.

“Oh my girl, I like to think that I know better by now, than to throw an unexpected intended at you while hoping for the best...” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Anyone not chosen by you will end with his throat ripped out before he could even blink” he continued. “You are not one to ever submit to another’s will. Not even mine. My ruthless little girl”.

“My teeth are sharp, father” she smiled then, a wolfish smile, all sharp, and white, and blinding in intensity. _Her father knew her well._

“Then have you given any thoughts on the matter, dear girl?”

She hummed, as her feet carried her to her usual place - her seat across her father's desk. Picking up their board of Cyvasse, she settled the pieces in their rightful place, and gestured with her hand for her father to start the game.

“I cannot say that I did not, father” she murmured while taking one of his elephants with her dragon. “Is Ned still going to be fostered in the Eyrie?” she inquired, while her father captured one of her spearmen.

“I think it best. Jon Arryn is a good man and he will steer your brother in the right direction” he winced, as her last trebuchet took out his dragon. 

“He’s stubborn, my brother. Thinks himself too old to squire” she pointed out, moving another piece on the board.

“Steffon Baratheon is thinking about sending his oldest son, Robert, to be fostered there, as well. I was thinking about inviting them to Winterfell to meet. Perhaps having a friend join him there would make it easier for your brother, in the long run.” Pieces were moved and removed from the board at a faster pace. More of his than of hers.

“Baratheons… Yes, that will do father” she continued, as his catapult killed her dragon. “Stannis Baratheon” she murmured as her heavy horse clicked in place and killed his king.

Her father chuckled, low and deep. “You enjoy blowing my pride to pieces much too often, my dear.” He looked pensive for a moment, as his mind analyzed and locked some unknown pieces of a hidden puzzle in place “ Stannis? The second-born? You do not want the heir?”

She leaned back in the chair, and stretched, lazily, while pinning him with her determined gaze. “Ned can keep the elder Baratheon brother” she smirked, eyes aglow “Stannis or none other, father”

He nodded, in acceptance “Well then, I suppose it’s time to lure the full herd of stags into the wolf’s den”

She relaxed then and laughed with real joy.

“ _It is time, little wolf. It has begun.”_

Her spirit soared.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sadly, not mine. 
> 
> I updated earlier than planned as my hands couldn't stop typing until the whole chapter was done. 
> 
> I also tried to maintain the initial timeline as much as possible. Consequently, Brandon Stark was still the firstborn and came into the world in 262, followed by Eddard in 263, Sansa in 264, Lyanna in 266, and Benjen in 267. This chapter ends in 277, the time when Aerys descends more and more into madness, all while trying to find a wife for Rhaegar.
> 
> The changes are there, but small to begin with, as I borrowed the Doctor's concept of fixed points in time. Moments unmovable and unchangeable through time and space, upon which the existence keeps from unwinding and crumpling upon its own foundation.


	3. When Souls Collide

_“I will meet you in my silences_

_I will meet you with no one around_

_your soul will collide with my soul_

_and newer stars and galaxies will be formed!”_

― **Avijeet Das**

  
  


Wisps of hair escaped her elaborate braid and the crisp air of the morning made her eyes water as she tried to stay focused on the narrow path in front of her. The trail curved and twisted, forcing her to lean forward, in order to avoid getting hit by the tree branches bending above. She laughed as she made her way deeper into the Wolfswood, and urged her mare to go faster - the faint sheen of sweat at her temples growing colder with the increased speed. 

As she reached the marker, a brilliant blue ribbon - now covered in dirt, tied around the stump of an old tree splintered by lightning, she slowed down to a canter before pulling her horse to a stop.

She dismounted, and using the back of her forearm, she wiped her forehead and twisted her fingers to roughly push the unruly locks back into their place.

“I won” she half-laughed, half-shouted, as Bradon’s steed came into view and stopped right behind hers. 

“Only because I let you” he smirked and dismounted. 

He looked as exhilarated as she felt - cheeks flushed, eyes bright, hair unbound and slightly damp. 

“Oh, shush, you” she pouted, extending her arm to lightly swat his shoulder. “Just let me bask in your defeat.” 

She breathed in the crisp air of the morning and moved a few steps away, in order to lean against the trunk of a tall tree. 

It’s not that she did not enjoy the time spent riding through the forest with her elder brother, but this morning he had insisted for them to ride earlier than they usually did. He wanted to speak to her - he had told her; away from the curious eyes and ears of those that lived and worked within the walls of their home.

“So, what did you want us to talk about?” she inquired, arching one eyebrow in question. 

She was a little impatient and curious. Her brother was not one to keep secrets and hide things. He was brutally honest and impulsive, always going straight to the point.

He smiled while rubbing Rhonen on the neck. “Father told me that in a moon’s turn we are to receive some guests”.

“So soon?” she wondered, tilting her head slightly to the left. 

_But not really._ Several moons _had_ passed since her father summoned her to his solar to inform her that although surprised, the Baratheon lord had agreed to the betrothal. There were still certain aspects to be discussed - like her dowry, how long would the betrothal last, where and when would the wedding take place; but all of these were mere formalities. Most importantly, her father wanted to take the measure of the young man she chose to bind herself to; and so, the Baratheon men were invited to Winterfell. However, their speedy arrival - in only _three_ moons and a couple of days, was surprising. There were almost 1700 miles to be traveled, in order to reach Winterfell from King's Landing, and all that without even taking into consideration the additional couple hundred miles that extended from Storm’s End to the Capital. The King’s Road, although fairly well maintained by the crown, was hard to travel even in the best conditions, discounting the capricious weather and bandits that made an already difficult journey even more so. 

She watched her brother blink and then shrug - his usual reaction when he didn’t have an answer to her questions, and she waited patiently for him to continue.

“A Baratheon sister? Are you sure about this?” he asked, approaching her with steady steps and extending one his gloved hand to rest on her shoulder.

“Father told you. You know why they come” she stated and focused her gaze on his face, taking note of the worried glance he kept sending her.

“I had hoped that you would choose closer to home” he whispered in her ear, his grasp on her tightening before releasing, only for his hand to rise once more, fingers splayed wide as he raked them through his dark brown locks.

She smiled and shook her head, feeling the same amused exasperation that she always did when her brother worried unnecessarily for her.

“It’s the only choice. Father would have had me married to a Lannister or a Martell. The North was never in the cards for me, Brandon” she answered.

Brandon’s hands closed into tight fists, eyes trained on the ground below and jaw grinding in frustration.“I see… Then he will do the same for the rest of us, won’t he?” His voice was low and furious.

“Yes. Probably. Most likely.” she returned, her look a combination of pity and understanding. She knew how frustrating and terrifying it was to wait for one’s future to be decided by another. But her brother was the _heir_ and had to do his _duty_ , and part of that duty was a marriage of excellent standing.

“Who do you suppose it will be, then? A lion, a rose, a trout?” he asked, his eyes sharp and trained on her face.

“I have an inkling, but I cannot say for sure,” she said, somewhat amused by his predictability. “But it’s not going to be a rose - at least I don’t think so” she continued.

Her brother lowered himself to the ground and Sansa winced. The soil was still moist, the day still too young for the dew to have dried, and her mind idly noted how uncomfortable it would be to ride with pants damp and muddy.

Her brother shifted - his arms went around his knees as he rested his left cheek on the dark linen covering his knees and lost himself in his thoughts.

Sansa closed her eyes and leaned her head back to enjoy the wind - now more of a slight breeze caressing her face; and listened to the quiet murmur of the forest while waiting patiently for her brother to sort out his thoughts. 

“Why the second Baratheon son, Sansa?” he inquired after a time, finally breaking the silence.

“Because he is brave and gentle and strong,” she softly, fondly uttered. “And because this will force father’s hand.” 

“Force father’s hand! Whatever for?” her brother exclaimed incredulously while tilting his head a little more to the left to have a better view of her face.

“Moat Cailin for starters.” She answered and picked a blade of grass from the ground - which she started to meticulously take apart into thin long pieces. “The rebuilding is taking much too long. And at the pace the builders are going, it’s not going to be finished for a very long time. Marrying a second son means that the Moat needs to be ready before the wedding, as father promised it to be part of my dowry” she continued softly.

She sighed, closing her eyes in dismay before she opened them again and continued “And then there’s Ned to consider. His departure to the Eyrie has already been postponed - twice, and he _must_ leave, and _soon_. Having a connexion with the Knights of the Vale is an essential part of father’s plans - his friendship with Jon Arryn notwithstanding.”

“So there really _will_ be war,” Brandon said as he swallowing audibly.

She gave a sharp nod and fixed him with her gaze. “Father thinks so. The realm grows more restless with each passing day and something needs to be done. Last year’s Defiance of Duskendale changed the king for the worse. We are safe for now, but we need alliances with the southron houses. The North has isolated itself from the rest of the kingdoms for far too long and though we can survive if continue to do so, we will never thrive.”

“I didn’t think the situation was so...impending” he murmured and rose to his feet.

“Oh Brandon, if you had paid more attention to father’s lessons and less on spending your coin on the _ladies_ of winter town, you would have easily understood this much,” she said, glaring at him half-heartedly.

“Now don’t you get snippy with me!” he countered while raising his palms mockingly in defense. “I didn’t _know_ it was _this_ serious.” 

“It is serious, Brandon. Deathly so, and all of us must play our part, and play it well - if we are to survive,” she stressed.

“What about Lyanna then? Are there any plans being made for her?” he asked, concerned.

She shook her head. “Nothing yet. She’s only twelve - still young, and in time, perhaps, father will allow her to choose as well” she mumbled the last part, more to herself, feeling a little guilty - as she always did when her sister was brought up in their discussions.

“Well thank the Gods for that,” he said, voice laced with relief, while lightly nudging her shoulder with his. “You know, I almost pity the poor bastard that ends up wed to you, sister” he continued, lightening the mood.

“He’s not a bastard!” she laughed, loud and clear, and then shot him an impish look. “And _I_ almost pity the poor unfortunate soul that ends up shackled to you, dear brother of mine.”

With this jap, she stretched out her arms and stepped closer to him.

“The last one reaching Winterfell is a rotten sheep shifter!” she barked, giving him a light shove - enough to make him stumble before she ran to her mount. 

His boisterous laugh sounded loud and joyous behind her, and it mingled with hers, startling the birds chirping in the crowns of the trees above and making them take flight in a frenzy of flapping wings. 

  
  
  


A couple of weeks later, she spent her days supervising and directing the preparations being made to receive their guests. The walls and floors were swept and then scrubbed with water and lye soap. The fireplaces were emptied of ash and soot, and carefully selected logs were neatly stacked at each side. Basins were meticulously cleaned and chamber pots were emptied, washed, and rubbed to a shine. Linens were collected, laundered and mended, mattresses were un-stuffed, aired, and then restuffed, while tapestries were taken down and carried outside to be beaten. All furniture was wiped down once, twice, and sometimes thrice a day. The larders were inspected, stocks checked, and measured. Fresh fruits and fish were sent from White Harbor. Salted venison, smoked meat and fish, pickled vegetables, confits, and sweet preserves were brought from the cooling rooms located in the lower dungeons.

Her evenings were spent in her father’s solar, pouring over maps and numbers with her brother and father. Ravens flew in and out of the rookery and there always seemed to be mountains of reports to be read or piles of letters to be answered. 

She was amazed at first to realize the sheer magnitude of the export trade agreements Winterfell - and the North in general had. She knew that during her first life, after the war, much of the agreements were lost as her old father struggled to take the mantle of the Warden of the North. But she couldn’t imagine how and why, as the income collected by the Starks now from taxes, exploitation of resource and trade was extremely high. Great cargos of lumber were continuously ferried down Long Lake, to White Knife, and then to White Harbor. From there, they were shipped all over Westeros and to the Free City of Braavos - the sums they received from the braavosi that needed wood to mend and build their fleet of ships were quite staggering. Mines and quarries up in the Northern Mountains extracted stone and silver that was also moved downriver, to be traded or crafted by the silversmith guild from White Harbor. Seal lard and oil was shipped to the Citadel to be transformed into healing ointments for cuts and burns. 

The import trading agreements though were few and far between. And still, despite their sparse numbers, these agreements were advantageous for Winterfell again: candles and salt from the Crownlands, wine, olives, and lemons from Dorne and honey from the Reach. 

“We don’t need much, us Starks to survive,” her father told them the evening before their guests arrived. “Most of our wealth is safely stored within the walls of the Iron Bank”.

The Iron Bank of Braavos was the most powerful financial institution in the known world. _Of course,_ she thought to herself. _It made sense to store money in the braavosi bank._ It was a much safer alternative than hoarding piles of gold within the walls of their home. After all, the fact that you couldn’t run from, cheat or sway the Iron Bank _was_ legendarily known.

Her father’s gaze lingered on her before moving on to Brandon.

“I have already notified the representatives of the bank that upon my death they should only release our funds to the two of you” he stated with finality.

This horrified Sansa - the thought of losing another father that she loved. It was like being hit in the face with a heavy stone. She did not like to, did not want to think about not having his presence in her life anymore. She felt her heart tighten and ache as if sharp claws were digging a hole inside of her chest. 

It seemed that even now, even here, after all this time, she longed for her father’s approval and love. Moreover so when she _knew and felt_ that she _had_ them both. 

In her past life, Sansa had always felt that she was not enough. She was not courageous like Robb, nor brash like Arya or fearless like Bran and not even fierce like little Rickon was. So she sewed, and wore pretty dresses, and learned to courtesy and to smile, to be a perfect _Lady_ like her mother was. But the more she improved, the more accomplished she became in womanly pursuits, the barrier that existed between her and her father of old grew as well, until it reached the height of the Wall and the thickness of the ocean. And so it became an obstacle that neither he nor she knew how to breach. And although some part of her _knew_ on some level that she _was_ loved, it wasn’t the same, it wasn’t enough.

But now her _father_ talked about dying with a small resigned smile on his face. “I know that this is not an easy thought. But we must make sure that our house lives on and continues to thrive in the eventuality of my death. It is your _duty_ to make it so.”

He removed himself from the map and made his way to his seat, lowering his body on it. “I have also put in place an arrangement with Lord Manderly to covertly negotiate the purchase of swords and spears from Braavos. The weapons will be then shipped to White Harbor and secretly moved by land to Winterfell and Moat Cailin” he continued, his fingers lightly tapping on the wooden armrest. “I have also asked Maester Walys to gather and record information about our population - age, gender, income, and location. All men age twelve and more will be conscripted and trained to fight.”

“A professional army, father?” Brandon interrupted, looking a little wary and overwhelmed at the thought.

The thought of a trained army with the sole purpose of fighting in wars was a little daunting even to Sansa. Westeros was not known for its military prowess for over 300 hundred years. Ever since Aegon the Conqueror brought his dragons to the land - and proved how useless iron and wood and stone were against scorching fire; the seven kingdoms did not see the need for a professional army. Moreover, the entire system on which their society was built upon did not make even the mere idea of a professional army sustainable. 

There were the knights, of course, already trained for battle, and they kept their skills honed with continuous training in order to take part in the tourneys regularly held by the great houses of the land. 

And then there were guardsmen, taken in the service of greater or lesser houses - to protect their lords and ladies. But these guardsmen were _chosen and employed from amongst their bannermen_ for their already existing skills, skills they had to keep sharp in order to maintain their livelihood. 

And there were sellswords and mercenaries of various sorts and quality, men that sold their skills for money. But how does one even begin to _trust_ _the loyalty_ of someone like that - even if one were to discount the high prices they charged for the continuous availability to serve.

But that was _all_. The rest were simple people: farmers, fishermen, herders, masons, builders, traders - people that had families and worked hard for their living. Ordinary people, that could not afford to play at being soldiers. Conscripting them to service meant investing in their training - training that took years until they were good enough to efficiently wield a weapon, all while paying them enough for their loved ones to get by. 

So no, there were no professional armies in Westeros anymore, as the costs were unsustainably high.

“But can we afford it, father?” Brandon haltingly inquired, giving voice to some of the thoughts swirling in _her_ mind.

“We can, and we will,” her father decisively replied.

Brandon nodded and shakingly splayed his fingers on the table.

“And how is the rebuilding of the Moat progressing, father?” asked Sansa a few moments later, curious to see what her war-minded father had managed to accomplish on that account.

“It’s getting there,” he sighed. “More hands have been hired and they managed to get much of the wall restored and the three towers. Our masons and builders are working on rebuilding ten more and they should be able to start working on the keep soon, perhaps in ten moons turn” he concluded, giving her a small smile.

Brandon’s eyebrows shot upwards again and then he gave her a sideways glance and watching her lips twist in a cat-like smile. 

She was both surprised and impressed, _damn it!_

She knew all too well that the ancient stronghold of the First Men was once one of the most important and strategic keeps, as it had shielded the north from southron invasion for thousands of years. Situated on the northern edge of the Neck - a great swamp with bogs and wet roads, Moat Cailin was an effective choke point, commanding the only safe route through the swamps into the northern territories. As such, it’s restoration to former glory - from the sunken wall to the broken towers and up it’s crumbling keep, was of utmost importance for the safety of the whole region.

“Brandon,” her father continued, “I have also been in touch with Lord Hoster Tully on the matter of his elder daughter Catelyn. It is a good match, my son, and she is said to be both pleasing to the eye and kind.”

Her brother looked up at this - startled at first, and then resigned. He stepped back from the table and went to one of the shelves in the back of the room to remove a wooden box, only for his hand to reach inside and take out several wolf figurines. He returned to the map and slowly, painstakingly, moved them in place. One for Winterfell, another Moat Cailin, a third for the Stormlands, and finally a fourth for the Riverlands. He furrowed his brows in thought, before moving his hand back to the box, and placing another wolf on the map. This time for the Vale.

“Four kingdoms out of seven” he murmured “but is it enough?”

“We shall have to wait and find out.” their father replied.

  
  
  
  
  


The next day, Sansa awoke early - having poorly slept the night before, and stretched before calling for a warm bath to be drawn. She felt tired and worn and needed to soak and wash the anxiety away. 

But even the lavender-scented bath could not calm her, could not make her mind keep still. She kept overthinking, overanalyzing - the ifs and whens overwhelming in their intensity. It was as if she was about to lose the tight, ironclad grip she had on her emotions. As if the merest kindness, the simplest touch or the softest spoken word would make her mind unravel. 

She broke her fast in her rooms, alone - a simple fare of cheese, bread, and lemon-scented water, unwilling to join her family until her mental walls felt safe again. 

After the tray was taken away by her maid, Sansa steeled herself and set to prepare for the day. She picked one of her sharp blades and tied it with a silken ribbon to her right thigh. After putting a white shift on, she carefully scrutinized all of her dresses and chose a dark grey silk one to wear. Her fingers lingered briefly on the wolfs embroidered on its bodice before they glided down the silken folds that fell in waves to the floor. She then braided across the top part of her hair, leaving the rest of her curls to cascade freely down her back in a waterfall of red. Next was her necklace - the only jewelry she wore, a piece made for her by the silversmiths from White Harbor. It was almost the same one she had worn in the life before: a silver circle pierced by a needle, it’s more delicate chain ending in a weirwood leaf. A reminder of sorts, a blending of the old and new. 

As she was about to put her slippers on, one of the servants knocked and entered, informing her that the Baratheon banners had been spotted from the walls.

_“It’s time”_ the voices of old crooned again. _“It’s time, little wolf”_

Nervously, she smoothed once more the folds of her dress and made her way to the courtyard, joining her father and elder brother, ready to receive their guests.

She stood tall and proud at her father’s left side - her elder brother at his right, and carefully took in the four horsemen that rode in, carrying the crowned black stag on a field of gold banner - House Baratheon’s sigil. 

They were followed by a tall broad-shouldered dark-haired man wearing a cloak of black with golden trimmings, a castle forged great sword sheathed at his right side - Steffon Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormland, Sansa mused. 

Behind him, two young men rode in. One slightly taller than the other, but both with the same black hair and broad-shouldered frame. But she immediately took notice of the differences between them. The shorter one was leaner and wore his hair cropped close to the head and as she was quietly observing him, he turned his head and his shockingly deep blue eyes met hers and softened. _Stannis. Stannis. Stannis._

Sansa’s entire world narrowed down to those two blue hawkish eyes, as her heart faltered and then increased it’s beating. _Stannis. Stannis. Stannis._

She greedily took in his features, all sharp angles, high cheekbones, and thin lips. _Lips that she had once felt upon hers. Lips that had traveled the planes of her body. Lips that she still yearned for._

Like in a dream, she faintly heard her father’s voice welcoming them into their home, and with the last remains of her will, she forced her eyes to the older man.

“And this is my eldest son Brandon” he continued, gesturing lightly to the right. “And my eldest daughter Sansa.”

She curtsied then all grace and poise - a second nature to her, too deeply ingrained into her very being, while lowering her eyes demurely to the ground.

Steffon Baratheon inclined his head in greeting and gestured backward for his sons to come closer to be introduced.

“Robert, my heir,” he proudly said while resting his gloved hand on the taller boy’s shoulder. 

Another bow followed by another curtsey from her part. 

“And Stannis, my second-born son” he continued.

And he was _there,_ in front over, a little dusty from the long road, but alive and whole. She did not lower her eyes this time - while bending her knees, but she looked boldly into his and extended her hand. A glimmer of amusement shone for a moment in their blue depths, before he gently took her slender hand into his - and _oh, how the mere touch of his gloved hand burned with heat;_ and brought his lips to lightly brush against her skin. _The whisper of a kiss._

  
  
  


The rest of the day passed as if in a dream. She was distracted and unable to focus on anything most of the time.

The rest of her siblings had been introduced after the guests had moved inside - she thought. She vaguely remembered showing them to their rooms, sending a light meal of cold meats, and making sure that the maids were preparing baths for each of them.

She passed the next hours ignoring her father’s amused and intrigued looks. So he _had_ noticed her strange behavior towards the youngest Baratheon. She avoided her elder brother - unusually _perceptive_ as of late, preferring to remove herself to her chambers, but not before making another round to make sure that the horses were properly handled, that the forty-something Baratheon guards were all housed and fed and that the preparations for the feast scheduled for later that night were well underway. 

She stepped into her rooms, closing the door, and seated herself on the bed, tilting her head to take out the pins that held her braid in place. As her hair unraveled, she carved her fingers through it, gently detangling a couple of knots. She was so lost in thought that she did not hear the door opening and closing behind her.

“Hello, wife”

The words registered with the speed of lightning, and then she gasped and turned towards the door.

He was leaning against it, legs crossed and arms loosely folded across his chest, a small smile on his lips - more of an uptick of the left corner of his mouth. His eyes were glimmering in the low light, trained upon her with an intensity that made her shiver in anticipation.

“Oh, Gods” she chocked breathlessly and lifted her hand to cover her mouth as she rose unsteadily to her feet. Her knees buckled under her weight, and she extended her hand backward to find purchase and steady herself by holding on the frame of her bed.

But he was already there, wrapping her in his arms and lowering them both slowly to the ground. She rested her cheek on his black doublet, feeling the warmth of his body carry over through the leather to her skin and stretched a hand over his _beating_ heart - a steady sound of comfort. “ _My_ _Stannis”_ she mumbled into his chest softly, _“It’s really you”._

He tightened his hold on her, breathing her in and rested his chin on the top of her head. “It’s me, my love” he whispered. 

He held her there, for a few long moments, his steady, firm, and silent presence strengthening and calming hers. Were she able, Sansa thought, she would freeze this moment in time and spend an eternity lost in his arms. _This, and only this, was what true happiness felt like._

He leaned back, unwrapping one of his arms from her frame and raising it up to her chin to gently push her head back.

His sharp blue eyes roamed over her face, taking her features in, burning them into his memory. And then he gently caressed the apple of her cheek with his thumb, the slow movement making her tremble. His gaze flickered to her lips and his head lowered slowly before his lips touched hers, hesitantly as if unsure of their reception. A moan escaped her, low and raw with need as she parted her lips. He groaned against her, before deepening the kiss, increasing the pressure desperately, like a drowning man gulping in his last breath of air. And she _felt_ like drowning as well, in the taste and feel of him, in the heat that burned deep in her very center, a raging inferno of want and need.

He sighed, before stopping, and rested his forehead to hers, taking sharp breaths of air. 

“I knew that father was planning to send Robert to Winterfell and from there to the Vale - I have seen it all happen before. But when he came to me one evening and hinted at an alliance between our houses…” he chuckled, lowly. “And not between Robert and Lyanna, but between Lord’s Start _firstborn daughter Sansa_ and myself...” he trailed off incredulously as he gently shook his head. “I was staggered. I couldn’t believe my eyes that you still wanted me. That you _chose me,_ after all this time” 

“Do you still doubt, it? Do you still _doubt me?_ ” she asked softly.

How was it that after all this time he still had doubts, he still felt insecure about her feelings for him? That this stalwart, profoundly honest man, was still as broken and deprecative as he had been in the life before? 

_Damn Robert, damn him to the seven hells and back for the damage he has wrought!_

“No” he sighed. “No Sansa, for the first time in my life I feel surer than I have ever been before. I _know_ how much your heart beats for mine” he continued, while gently pressing her hand over his chest, atop the beating of his heart. “And you must know, surely you must know how thoroughly those feelings are returned. You own me, Sansa Stark, body and soul.”

Sansa smiled widely then, her faced iridescent in happiness, and leaned to gently peck his lips. 

“Oh, how I missed you, my love” she continued.

He swallowed audibly and tightened his jaw. “These last years have been difficult, it’s true, but the gods have given us a precious gift,” he said. “We must heed their warnings if we are to accomplish the task they have entrusted us with.”

“Jon” she murmured. 

He nodded once. “And the war of the five kings” he continued. “All Westeros must stand united to fight against the dead”.

She shut her eyes tightly and sighed.

“With our betrothal and marriage, my father will look somewhere else for Lyanna,” she said, deep in thought.

“Enough to keep Robert away from her, perhaps” he mused, as he idly twirled one of his long fingers around a lock of her hair. “But I have my doubts. This Robert is as stubborn as the last one was, and what Robert wants, Robert usually gets.”

“Well, this Robert will be bitterly disappointed then,” she added smugly. “Father will not accept anything less than a Lannister or a Martell.”

“The young Viper of Dorne or the Kingslayer” Stannis grimaced, heavy brows furrowed in thought. “If this must be the case, then it should be the Kingslayer. Having the early support of Tywin Lannister would be useful and end the rebellion faster.”

“Jaime Lannister,” she said, lips curling in distaste.

It was a long shot, but the _only_ logical option they had. The Martells would never take up arms against one of their own, and Elia was deeply loved by her brothers and her people. The Reach - well that was a can of maggots that she was unwilling to open, as she knew full well how long Stannis _could_ and _would_ hold a grudge. And a younger Oleena Tyrell was still as dangerous and cunning - if not even more so, as the older one had been before. Moreover, she _had_ a strong feeling that Jaime becoming a Kingsguard would still happen in this lifetime as well, as Aery’s jealousy and wish to humiliate his hand was starting to manifest more and more. Rumors about the king’s disgraceful refusal to betroth his son to the Hand’s young daughter were already spreading throughout the land, having already reached the North.

“I think no matter what we do, some events are still bound to happen, and I fear that Jaime’s inclusion to the Kingsguard during the tourney of Harrenhall is one of them,” she pointed out.

Stannis nodded once, accepting her statement at face value. “And Lyanna running away with Rhaegar will light again the flames of the rebellion. But I would rather wish for us to avoid being almost starved to death during Storm’s End’s siege” he dryly concluded, a little uncomfortable.

Sansa startled at the thought. It wasn’t as if she forgot about the siege or that she did not know what real hunger felt like, because she bitterly did. But fortunately, there was no _possibility_ of _that_ happening again. _Not_ in this lifetime. Steffon and Cassana Baratheon were alive and well, and the time of their death was fastly approaching - only a little over one’s moon turn left until Wingproud should have sunk in Shipbreaker Bay. But it would not happen, as that tragedy was already being avoided due to Steffon's arrival to Winterfell.

“I think we will be in the position to help your brother avoid that, eventually.” she mischievously smiled. “Father is rebuilding Moat Cailin for me, for us,” she continued “It should be ready by my 17th nameday and with your parents alive and well, I think that we can safely say that there will be no starving in the foreseeable future for either of us” she finished while cupping his jaw and kissing him.

“It seems to me that you _have_ been busy, my dear,” he said with a proud look on his face.

Sansa silently observed as his brilliant mind neatly pieced together the facts and rearranged the information in neat little boxes, already planning their next move. 

Relief flooded her, as she finally, finally felt able to completely relax, knowing that together they could, and would achieve anything they put their minds to. 

And they stood there - on the stone floor, entwined, sharing light kisses and hushed stories of everything that had happened - in the past, in the in-between and now, in their new present. 

She told him about her father’s plans and her intentions of saving both her father and elder brother - resigning herself to never see her siblings of old be born again in this new world. This _was_ the real value of the price she had to pay - one life for another. 

He told her of the agony he felt at Renly’s birth, only eleven moons ago, and how uncomfortable it was for him to be around the babe - as the guilt ate at him whenever he looked upon Renly's small and innocent face.

She told him of her non-existent relationships with Ned and her younger siblings, how the warnings of the gods of old had stopped her from getting attached. Of her mother’s death, of her fears and doubts of not being strong enough to face the battles yet to come.

He, in turn, told her about his unchanged relationship with Robert - there was once again little love lost between the two of them. 

And on, and on they went, opening their hearts and baring their souls. And so, with each shared though and emotion, their bond reforged - stronger and brighter than before, and the remaining wounds started to heal and close, as neither of them felt alone anymore - an incomplete torn puzzle waiting for another worn piece to fall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week will be an extremely busy one for me workwise but I will try to get the next chapter up and running by the end of it. Depending on how much time I have to write and edit.  
> I have initially planned this chapter differently, but Brandon had to have his say as well - he is his father's son after all. Also, for the plans I have in store for the rebellion to work, I had to tinker a little with the North's wealth before the rebellion. I think I'm not going too far in presuming that the Starks had some wealth amassed - wealth that Ned knew nothing about as he wasn't supposed to be the one to inherit the wardenship. I based the North's economy on Werthead's "An Economic Map of the Seven Kingdoms", which I found pretty accurate.


	4. The Passing of Time

_“We say that time passes, time goes by, and time flows. Those are metaphors. We also think of time as a medium in which we exist.”_

**\- James Gleick**

“Are they going to stop anytime soon, you think?” Stannis inquired - from his side next to hers while taking a sip of lemon water and leaning forward, to stare with something akin to fascination in their blue depths, at their older brothers.

She shrugged in response, tilting her head a little to the left to observe them as well, prepared to intervene if things got out of hand.

Brandon was glaring daggers at the Baratheon heir, his hand spasmodically gripping and releasing the cutlery, lips drew back over his teeth in a snarl. He looked like a wolf ready to spring upon its prey. Robert was staring furiously at her brother in return, his red and blotchy face growing redder by the minute, lips curled in distaste. 

“They will have to stop in a couple of hours anyway” she sighed while shaking her head. Robert and Ned were set to depart for the Eyrie that day, and the relief she felt at being out of the Baratheon’s heir presence was overwhelming.

She felt Stannis rest his hand over hers and give a little squeeze, and she closed her eyes to remember where it all - in what felt like the blink of an eye, went horribly wrong.

The welcoming feast had gone pretty well in the beginning, but as time moved on and more ale was consumed the initial formality and reticence of their recent acquaintance was replaced by easy manners and less guarded words. 

It began with a few winks and lecherous leers from Robert and continued with a string of crude remarks - something about his younger brother being a stick in the muck, an offer of a test run with a real Baratheon man, and a question of matching carpet and drapes that had her turn red in anger and her older brother jump out off his seat and over the table, fist drew back and ready to hit the other man in the face. Only her father’s and Lord Baratheon’s swift intervention was able to stop a fight from breaking out and prevent the evening from turning into a complete disaster. 

She did not know what was discussed between the two elder Baratheons and the two elder Starks in the solar that evening- as her brother was unusually tight-lipped about the whole situation, but while the leering and remarks had stopped, the tension between the two heirs grew to new heights. 

She should have expected this - Sansa wryly thought to herself sometime later, not a little miffed for failing to anticipate that Robert _could_ and _would_ try to humiliate his younger brother - within the hearing of _her_ family nonetheless. But she hadn’t anticipated this kind of idiocy to spew forth out of the mouth of what was supposed to become the future High Lord of the Stormlands. And now the harm was done and what followed made the remaining of the visit somewhat tense. 

For the remaining days Robert Baratheon spent in Winterfell, there was always someone trailing behind him - either Stark or Baratheon men, tasked to keep an eye on him and prevent any discourteous behavior from happening again.

Sansa was delighted to see the looks of warning and disappointment Steffon Baratheon continuously gave his elder son whenever their paths crossed in her presence. It gave her a great measure of satisfaction to see Robert under the scrutiny of the Stormland Lord, moreover so when the latter had lived - until that moment, in the assumption that the former could do no wrong. Sansa wasn’t blind. She was well aware that Stannis was not an easy man to like or love and although his behavior differed with her - more soft and open, he was still the same Stannis Baratheon that would have rather starved to death than concede Storm’s End to the Reach, still the same man that had succeeded - although at a great cost, to retake Winterfell from the Boltons and return it to her. He was honest and direct to a fault thus making everyone he came in contact with feel uncomfortable and discomforted. He was if Sansa was to be completely honest to herself, all that she had ever wanted - disregarding the moronic first thirteen years of her first life. But more importantly, she _loved_ him and he was _hers_ , and after so many years of being a prisoner - nothing more than a puppet in other people’s games, _she guarded what was hers fiercely_. So Sansa did notice the difference in regard - the small gestures that implied, if not directly hinted at a certain disregard for the second-born son by the same man that fathered them both. And it made her blood boil with rage. The only thought that did manage to soothe and prevent her from doing something completely foolish - like compromising Stannis so that she would wed him sooner and keep him far away from people that did not _deserve_ him, was the hindsight that foreknowledge provided. Robert was _fated_ to amount to nothing more than a red-faced fat drunk and Steffon Baratheon _would_ live to _see_ it this time.

Her father, well, he was another unexpected source of dismay for Sansa after that first evening. He followed both Baratheon sons with eyes as cold as ice shard and as sharp as a knife and she could not help but hate it that her interactions with the man she loved were so heavily kept under guard. She knew that her father and older brother were very protective of her but she had proved them - time and time again, that her reasoning was sound and that she could and would take care of herself. It frustrated Sansa to no end that even after both her father and older brother had realized that Stannis and Robert were nothing alike, they were never allowed to steal a single moment of privacy together. Even the servants that had avoided her like the plague before, were always found to loiter wherever she was. And it confused her at first until she was unaffectedly informed - by one of the maids working in the kitchens, that all the servants had taken the behavior of the Baratheon heir as a personal slight. Even more bewildering was the fact that they had taken it upon themselves to make their displeasure known in some way or another. Small gestures that bordered on rudeness whenever they had to attend to the young lord’s needs - the fire in his rooms was not kindled fast enough, the chamberpot was not emptied as often as it should have been and the water drawn for his baths was at best, lukewarm. And it should have bothered Sansa on some level this breach in hospitality, but it _didn’t,_ as this was the first time the household servants united and acted on _her_ behalf. 

Even her younger siblings tried to enact a poorly thought plan to avenge her honor. _And when did her honor come in question, anyway?_ And so, her siblings were caught carrying sheep dung inside the keep and it had taken her father an entire morning to find out that they had planned to sheep shift Robert’s bed that afternoon. And although their intentions were thwarted by their highly amused father, it did not stop Lyanna and Benjen from throwing the Baratheon heir dirty looks whenever they were forced to spend time in his proximity. 

And, to her bemusement, even Ned had become wary of Robert, his usually solemn brooding eyes following him with distrust in their grey depths. _And wasn’t that a novel sight_ Sansa thought to herself while watching it all unfold. 

Would this be enough to prevent the close friendship they had in their old life to form in the new one as well? _Perhaps_ , she mused, but she did not count her blessings yet, as she knew that Robert _could_ be charming - whenever he took the time to make an effort to be so.

And so the days that followed were spent not in any way that she had imagined - in the arms of the man she loved, but under the watchful eyes of her father or elder brother.

  
  


“You seem pleased with your young man, my child,” her father told her one late evening as she joined him in his solar and took a seat in front of the fireplace.

“Yes father, I am,” she answered with a smile “very much so”.

“Then all is well, as it should be” he murmured and swirled the wine from his cup before taking a small sip. “The betrothal has been agreed upon and you will marry just before your seventeenth nameday” he continued, watching her pensively.

She nodded, her fingers lowering to smooth out a small crease in the folds of her dress. “Has Lord Baratheon agreed for the wedding to be held in the Goodswood of Winterfell?”

“He did. I don’t think he would have refused me anything after the behavior displayed by his eldest” her father continued, eyes briefly flashing in anger. “I was half a mind to send them all packing that evening if I hadn’t seen the way you greeted your young man in the courtyard or the way he looked at you during the feast.”

Sansa shifter in her seat uneasily, feeling a rush of heat travel up her body to settle into her cheeks. 

She had acted a little out of character, wanting to make her favor and intention clear to everyone, Stannis included. But she didn’t think that her father would notice as much as he did, nor did she think that he would point it out later on. After all, this wasn’t the first time she had behaved in an unusual manner and her father had early on adjusted to take her actions at face worth, knowing that she always had a good reason behind them.

“From the very first moment I saw Stannis, father I….” she stopped, at a loss of words. There was too much to say and the proper words escaped her.

Her father leaned forward and patted her hand comfortingly with his.

“I think I know my dear, I felt the same way about your mother, you know,” he said, a sad wistful smile on his face.

“Did you, really?” she inquired softly, intrigued by this little piece of information on her parent’s history and willing to find out more.

“Oh yes, it happened during one of the feasts my father gave to honor his bannerman. It was the only time the entire house of Flint was in attendance. The first time my eyes met hers as she entered the Great Hall - all beauty and grace, I knew that my heart was lost” he continued. “And I saw the same happen all over again the moment the Baratheon men rode into Winterfell.” 

He seemed lost in the recollection of the long-gone past, the shadows of memories dancing on his face - an eerily contrast to the flames dancing merrily in the fireplace.

Her father, she realized in that sudden moment of understanding - though very good at hiding it from his children, was still very much grieving for their mother. Sansa wanted to tell him that she understood him, that she too had felt that all-consuming pain that seemed to have no end and no beginning, that made everything pointless and inconsequential. But she _couldn’t_. Because they would only sound like empty platitudes in the face of such a loss.

And so, she offered the only truth that she was able to - a small and fleeting measure of comfort.

“I am glad you have found each other” she whispered slowly while tightening her hold on his arm in return.

“So am I, dear child, so am I” her father mumbled, still lost in the shadows of the past.

He came to himself a few moments later, with a sharp intake of breath that drew her attention from the flames.

“Steffon and his son will remain for another moon’s turn, and then return to Storm’s End” he stated, finality rooted deep in his words.

“Already, father? Must they?” she anxiously interrupted, releasing his hand and rising unsteadily to her feet.

“It must be so. They have duties to attend to” her father pointed out. 

She clenched her hands into fists, feeling her fingernails bite into her flesh only to leave small crescent indents on the skin of her palms, but remained otherwise silent for _what was there to tell?_

Her father sighed and shook his head before giving her a compassionate look. “But you have my consent to write to your betrothed as often as you wish. And in two years’ time you shall be wed.”

Time sped by as it oft did when one would wish it to stand still. 

Sansa spent much of the little she had left with Stannis and while she treasured each and every moment spent in his company, the imminence of their separation lingered, painting every encounter with sadness and regret.

They did not talk much, as they had learned to read each other well in their other life - during those long uncertain moons while she took care of the wounds inflicted upon him by Bolton steel, preferring to spend their moments in quiet companionship. They did not talk much, moreover so when it wasn’t in either of their nature to do so - words had long ago lost meaning for them both - one-act was worth more than one thousand words. A knowing look, a smile, a raised eyebrow, a frown, a scowl, and a twitch of lips were better used to carry entire conversations.

Not being able to be alone together anymore was frustrating at best and miserable at worst. After being parted for so long it was excruciating to be unable to just be together, to share more than those perfunctory touches dictated by the rules of propriety. It wasn’t as if they would share more than a kiss or an embrace had they been left on their own. Both of their sense of honor recoiled at the thought of being intimate without having shared vows - although technically they were still married. But they could not justify a marriage done in a future past, and neither would they spend those precious and sacred moments rushed and hidden in some dark corner, behaving as if what they were doing was shameful.

Besides, a repeat of their first private meeting was unattainable now. The risk was far too great as they both feared what would happen were they to be discovered. It was also a chance that they were unwilling to take, not now when they were about to get everything they had ever hoped for and so much more.

And time, finite in its infiniteness and unforgiving in its relentlessness flew by.

“I am not good with words, Sansa, you know I am not,” Stannis said apologetically, his arms wound loosely around her as they’ve said their goodbyes in the goodswood - for once blessedly alone.

She shook her head and swallowed, a futile attempt to dislodge the lump of emotion lodged deep in her throat that prevented her from speaking. 

“But I will write to you, as often as I can” he continued softly, brushing a curl of her fiery hair from her face and behind her ear before his hand retraced its course and cupped her face.

She leaned her face into the warm leather, her eyes fluttering shut, and with a shuddered breath managed to finally say something in return. “I had thought that I would have been used by now to say goodbye” she murmured, her voice breaking.

Sansa thought that this farewell was the hardest thing she ever had to do - and she had said so many of them in her life, old and new. Fare the well, three simple little words shortened into one, words that were enough to make her heart recoil in pain and her eyes mist over with tears. She should have been accustomed by now to say them, but her lips stubbornly refused to form the words.

“Sansa” he whispered, his eyes soft and so very blue. “This is not goodbye.”

“It feels like one to me” she insisted, wilfully, brokenly.

“It is not. Not really. This is more of a see you later. A see you later never to be parted from you again. Not -- not even when you will grow tired of me” he continued hesitantly, not knowing what to do nor what to say to comfort the woman he loved.

“I will never ever be tired of you” she dryly stated, eyes bright with a glimmer of humor in them. “And you continue to insist that you are not good with words...” she trailed off brokenly while leaning her head on his shoulder.

He shook his head above her, uncomfortably. “I am not. Good, that is. Not good with words.” He cleared his throat once before he continued “But I am trying. For you.”

“I know” she sighed, raising her eyes to meet his “And I love you the more for it.”

He leaned into her, brushing his lips to her.

“It’s time,” he whispered.

She nodded and stepped back from his embrace, watching his arms fall down next to his body, fingers already curled into tight fists, jaw clenched in determination.

And she stood there, under the weirwood tree - in what she strickenly realized was the place of her death, and watched him turn away and leave.

For the first couple of weeks after Stannis departed Sansa felt miserable _._

She kept mostly to herself, trying to see the silver lining of her situation - she only had to wait a little under two years for Stannis to return, and then nothing would take him away from her again.

It was difficult to get her life into a routine, but she dove deep into the reserves of willfulness that she still possessed and managed to get into a pattern. And each passing day made the next one easier to bear. 

Three months had already passed before the first raven came carrying a short scroll written by her betrothed and letting her know that he had reached Storm’s End safely. Excitedly, she made her way to her rooms and spent the evening writing a letter in return, in what would become the first of many shared between Winterfell and Storm’s End. 

  
  


_My Lord,_

_I was overjoyed to receive your raven and read that your journey home was uneventful and that upon your return you have found your lady mother and baby brother recovered and well. I hope that you can find it in yourself to build a new relationship with your younger brother. Perhaps, in time, the weight of what should have been will fade. What has happened cannot be unmade, not really, not for us who have lived it. We can only learn from it and try our utmost to do better in the future. The past needs not to repeat itself, not for this, my darling. Don’t let this become another ghost to hunt you so._

_Speaking of brothers, I must confess that I am troubled by my own as well, although in a different way. We have received constant news from the Vale and it is as we expected. Ned would rather remain there for longer than initially planned and he has forgiven Robert. He has justified his actions as giving a good man a second chance. Because it was the honorable thing to do._ _His words, not mine_ _._

_Brandon is furious about it and has made his displeasure known in a very heavily worded raven of which I will not utter another word. It is my intent to provide believable deniability should my father find out and ask me about it._

_Winterfell feels empty without you here and if it were not for father and Brandon keeping me occupied and somewhat entertained, I would not be able to write to you and honestly tell you that I am well. And I am, my darling, so there’s no need to worry._

_Be well and stay safe._

_Yours,_

_Sansa Stark_

  
  


A couple of days later, Steffon Baratheon watched with curiosity as maester Cressen entered the dining hall and presented his middle son with a raven brought scroll. His eyebrows rose in incredulity as his morose and sullen son, hastily rose from his seat at the head table and grabbed it with an impatient gesture of his hand. He then continued to observe as Stannis scanned the letter before rolling it back up, only to leave the hall altogether.

“A scroll from Winterfell, My Lord” the maester informed him, having already noticed his lord’s curiosity.

Steffon nodded his thanks to the man. _Winterfell_. _Of course._

It had surprised him, the first time the maester informed him that a letter from the north had arrived. After he finished reading the short missive that hinted at the possibility of an alliance between his house and that of the warden of the north, he carefully constructed a missive of his own that implied his assent for such an arrangement to be made. A couple of missives back and forth, and all of his plans to find a suitable bride for his elder son crumbled into dust, as Rickard Stark let it be unequivocally known that the only Baratheon he had in mind for his eldest daughter was his middle son. 

He accepted the invitation to Winterfell, resigned for the negotiations to amount to nothing, as he had been fairly sure that as soon as the Stark girl would meet his second-born she would beg her father to put a stop to all proceedings. 

But the northerners surprised him yet again, as the girl - a great beauty with fiery hair, found his quiet and brooding son _enchanting._

Moreover, to his bewilderment, it wasn’t Stannis but Robert who managed to bring shame to their house in their very first evening spent in Winterfell. He thanked the Seven that the Starks were honorable enough not to throw them out after _his son's_ undignified display. 

And to his everlasting bafflement, the visit ended with _his second son_ being offered a better situation that he himself found hard to match. Discounting the impeccable lineage and unmatched beauty Sansa Stark possessed, her dowry was higher than he would have dared to request for a firstborn son, much less for a second - a keep, lands, silver mines and a fortune in golden dragons stored in a vault of the Iron Bank. Were it not for the knowledge that it was Rickard Stark behind this arrangement, he would have thought it a very bad jest.

And now he watched in dismay as his second-born son - the serious, severe and determined boy he had fathered but was never able to understand or reach, dismissed him once again, _his father_ , without a second thought, to read a missive from his betrothed. And he could not help but sourly wonder what was it about these Starks that made fools out of the Baratheon men. 

  
  


_My Lady,_

_As difficult as this is for me to admit, I no longer remember a time when I wished for things to be different between my elder brother and me, so do not concern yourself with such things. They are of little to no consequence to me and your brother is welcomed to have him if he is so inclined._

_As for Renly. I held him in my arms today and somehow the guilt has lessened. I will do my best to guide and protect him to the best of my abilities, as I have the strangest feeling that his life this time will not be an easy one._

_There are storms gathering outside the keep, my lady, and I cannot help but think them an omen of things to come. We are all living in the silence that gathers just before the storm._

_I hope this raven finds you in good health._

_Yours,_

_Stannis Baratheon_

So he was receiving warnings from the Gods of Old as well, Sansa thought while reading Stannis’ last raven. Not as poignant and clear as hers, more subtle, but warnings nevertheless.

The storms _were_ _gathering and they were living in the calm before the storm._ The marriage between Elia Martell and Rhaegar Targaryen was only a couple of months away. Another year of blessed peace before the storm, before destinies would collide and fall, starting with the Tourney of Harrenhal.

_My Lord,_

_My father has made a decision regarding my sister’s future. It is, as we have thought, an alliance with House Lannister. She is to wed Jaime Lannister on her sixteenth name day._

_I must confess that although I can see the benefits, it’s difficult for me to see my sister entrusted to the lions. I had hoped that it would not come to this._

_Lyanna is understandably unhappy. She was horrified to hear the news and locked herself in her rooms, refusing to see anyone but little Benjen._

_We will be leaving for Riverrun in a fortnight, as father has also decided that it’s time for Brandon to meet his future wife. I plan to take full advantage of this visit and use it to solve our little problem if the opportunity to do so arises._

_Do not write to me until you receive word from me, the Riverlands are not safe._

_And do not worry my darling, all will be well._

_Love,_

_Sansa Stark_

Removing Littlefinger from the game early hadn’t been in Sansa’s plans. 

Initially, she planned to allow the visit to Riverrun to happen as it had already happened in the future past. But the mere thought of letting the man responsible for so much heartache _live,_ made her skin crawl and her stomach turn in horror. _What would letting him live make her?_ Surely only a monster would allow the continued existence of Petyr Baelish - the nexus point, the chaos that brought the realm of men down on its knees before the true winter. 

So Sansa plotted and planned for days on end, trying to find a solution, until the simplest thought crossed her mind, the gordian knot. Catelyn Tully had begged her brother for Littlefinger’s life in the future past. She only had to make sure that the Tully girl would not witness the fight that would, more likely than not, ensue between her brother and Baelish. It should be just enough to warrant the mockingbird's demise.

_My Lord,_

_We have returned to Winterfell this very evening, following the death of one of Lord’s Tully fosterlings. The boy - aptly nicknamed Littlefinger, dared to challenge my brother to a duel for the hand of my future sister in law. Naturally, the challenge was accepted but the fight that ensued was brutal and Littlefinger succumbed to his injuries the very same evening._

_You do not need to fear for my sensibilities, my lord, as neither I nor the Tully girls were allowed to witness the event. Lord Tully forbade it most vehemently._

_Brandon was not impressed with the elder girls’ hysterical reaction to the news of the boy’s passing. I don’t think he likes his betrothed much and I can understand why._

_Lyanna continues to sulk and plead with father to reconsider his choice - but with each passing day less so. I think that she’s no longer in denial but starting to accept the inevitability of the Lannister alliance._

_I hope my raven finds you well. I miss you._

_Yours,_

_Sansa Stark_

To say that Stannis was livid was a great understatement of a fact. 

It wasn’t that he doubted Sansa, _because he didn’t_ \- he knew full well the extent of her strength, the lengths she would travel in order to protect those she cared for.

But not knowing what she had planned, not knowing if she was safe, was intolerable to him. 

He was not a man accustomed to love, as it had escaped him most of his life present and past. He had loved his parents, he had loved his daughter and he did not realize until it was too late that he had also loved his younger brother.

He was not a man accustomed to feel and act upon those feelings, as his life had been mostly ruled by duty. Duty to his parents, duty to his bannermen, duty to his wife and child, duty to his brother the king and then, finally, duty to the realm. It was only just for him to do his duty, no matter his wants. But all duty paled in comparison to the depth of feelings Sansa Stark had managed to wring out of him within only moons of knowing her. 

Leaving her that first time - so long ago, was agony in its purest form and when he felt the winter’s final embrace, her name on his lips as he breathed his last, he refused to be parted from her, refused to go to a place devoid of her shining light. 

And so, he found himself inexplicably back at her side, unable to touch or comfort her, to make his presence known. All that was left was to follow and witness as hope dimmed in her eyes with each passing day, as her heart turned to stone with each dead body she had to burn - until famine took all living souls but her. He stood by in misery and watched as she drew her last breath, sweet sleep on her lips, waiting for the fires to consume her as well. And then, at the end, when all had seemed lost, the gods of old spoke and darkness fell.

He had never wished to look backward but as he awoke to this new life, Stannis knew that his duty was dead. 

Storm’s End did not feel like home again - just rocks upon rocks, empty and cold.

His parents did not feel like his parents at all - his mind refused to accept them as anything else than ghosts of their former selves - a fact made easier by how differently they acted with him. He could not go backward and behave like a child again, as his very being recoiled at the mere thought.

He could only go forward, always forward. And going forward meant an unknown future and most importantly, Sansa - the woman he loved.

Knowing that Sansa was in danger - and he once more powerless to help, was more than he could bear. Despite his experience, he was not yet accustomed to _worry_ and _wait_ , not when it concerned _her_.

When the second raven came, after what felt like an eternity of waiting and scouring the skies from the ramparts of the keep, he did not know whether to feel relief that Sansa was well, satisfaction that Baelish was dead, or rage that Sansa had taken it upon herself to dive head into danger to end the life of a man he considered his due to put an end to himself.

_Sansa,_

_Four months. I have been waiting for a word from you for over four months! Not knowing if you were well or not, not knowing if you were even alive!_ _This will never happen again for I cannot bear it!_

_You will never endanger yourself again, no matter the cost!_

_I find myself missing you terribly as well, although only the gods know why._

_Yours,_

_Stannis_

On second thought, Sansa had expected a harsh reaction from Stannis in answer to her raven. She had been short in both explanation and reassurance, but only because she did not have a clear idea of how to proceed in order to achieve the results she wanted.

When the path to follow finally cleared, it was too late to write and let him know that she had the answer and a safe way to make it happen. The Riverlands were as of yet an unknown factor and she could not be sure that the ravens would leave Riverrun unread by another.

And while Sansa felt guilty and found it rather sweet that he worried for her to such an extent, she could not let any opportunity slip through her hands like water, not even at his request. Not when everything was at stake.

_My Lord,_

_While I do understand that the last raven sent before leaving for Riverrun did not contain enough information to reassure you, I had hoped that you would remember that I am neither foolish nor dimwitted enough to endanger all of our plans. I would never take an unwarranted risk with so much at stake._

_While I admit that the chance was great, the rewards should I succeed were even greater._

_As for your demands, I am sorry but I cannot make false promises. Not to myself and not to you. But I can and will vow to make always sure that I put myself in the least amount of danger as possible. For us. I am of a mind to spend a lifetime by your side, my darling._

_Yours,_

_Sansa Stark_

_My Lady,_

_My parents have returned with news from their stay in King’s Landing following the royal wedding. Princess Elia is already with child and will give birth in four moons turn._

_We will depart within the sennight and head towards the Vale to meet Robert and your brother. And then, we will travel with them to Winterfell._

_I never wanted to imply that you endangered the future, my love. The realm was far from my thoughts when I wrote you. Damn the realm to the seven hells, my fears and worries were only for you._

_We will see each other soon. Any other words will have to wait until then._

_Yours,_

_Stannis Baratheon_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not entirely happy with how this chapter turned out. I rewrote half of it several times - the half containing the letters, as I couldn't find the proper word and tempo to suggest the passing of time. Stannis is a little OOC but he has been through a lot, and this is a canon au, so please bear with me :)  
> Concerning Baelish - well he had to go! From the very begging, I planned for him to die at Brandon's hands. He could not be allowed to live and wreak havoc on the seven for my story to go the direction I want it to go. Also, this gave me the opportunity to set the tone for Cat and Brandon's relationship as well.  
> To give you a timeframe, we are at the end of 280 now, fastly approaching the fated 281.  
> Constructive criticism is as always, much appreciated!


	5. The Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes well... There is this chapter. I found it very, very difficult and absolutely mortifying to write smut, but I do enjoy reading it. *Peeks over the screen blushing furiously* I am so not good at this.

_“I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,_

_or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:_

_I love you as one loves certain obscure things,_

_secretly, between the shadow and the soul.”_

**\- “One Hundred Love Sonnets”, Pablo Neruda**

Tywin Lannister was traveling to Winterfell. _Tywin Lannister was traveling to Winterfell._ The words kept repeating themselves in a loop in Sansa’s mind. This could not be happening, she refused to believe it to be true.

“With his son, of course, it’s only right for them to want to meet Lyanna, and what greater opportunity than your wedding feast” her father’s faint voice continued as if he was talking of something as normal as tax collection and road repairs.

She could do nothing else but stand there, frozen, as wave upon wave of dread and horror crashed upon her, threatening to swallow her whole. She felt her vision grow dimmer and dimmer - it was as if the stone walls of her father’s solar were coming to life only to close in on her, sealing her in a place that was growing smaller and smaller without allowing for any possible route of escape. 

She was not ready for this. _She was so not ready for this._

“Sansa, child, are you feeling well?”

Her father. Or his voice at least. 

But she could not _breathe_. She gasped for air as her body shuddered and spasmed, uncontrollably. Her head was pulsing and there was a muted sound in her ears similar to the wind blowing through an abandoned tower during wintertime. And when did the fire went out from the fireplace? She felt so very, very cold.

“Sansa!”

As in a dream, she felt strong arms embrace her from behind, a strong warm body supporting hers from collapsing. Her brother’s deep and calm voice sounded as if from afar, but it whispered soothingly in her ear “Breathe with me, Sansa, breathe with me.”

She struggled to focus on the movement of the chest behind hers - the steady rise and fall of it, and the warmth that radiated from it seeping into her. “Breathe in, breathe out, like this” he continued - in and out, in and out, like the beating of one’s heart, a continuous movement following for what felt like an eternity, but couldn’t have been more than several moments.

“Yes, like this Sansa, good” Brandon murmured. His hands slowly, almost hesitantly, released their tight hold on her only to for his palms to start stroking her arms up and down, slowly. “All better now?” 

The pressing feeling gave way then, and Sansa nodded in agreement, closing her eyes in relief before letting her head lean back and rest on his shoulder.

She opened her eyes only to see her father draw near carrying a small goblet in his large and calloused hands. “Take small sips, my dear,” he said, handing her the cup.

Her hand shakingly reached out - the muscles aching in protest, and took the cup. She brought it slowly to her lips and took several small sips, the cool and refreshing taste of the water sliding down her dry throat and reviving her senses.

She gave Brandon’s arm a reassuring squeeze and stepped out of his embrace to take a seat in front of the fireplace. The fire was still burning, she noted to herself as an afterthought, and yet the chill seemed to linger, somehow.

Still reassured by her brother’s calm presence just within her reach, she turned her eyes towards her father. His concern and distress were etched deep on his long and pale face, in his dark eyes, furrowed brows, and lined forehead.

She cleared her throat once, twice, before she felt confident enough that she would be able to speak without her voice betraying her uneasiness.

“Do you think it wise, father?” she asked but immediately winced at the high pitch of her voice. She lifted the cup back to her lips and drank the remaining liquid. 

Her father shook his head ruefully, before taking the goblet from her hand and setting it on the table.

“What is it about Lord Lannister that frightens you so, my child?” he inquired a moment later, once more at her side. 

She watched as her father and brother exchanged worried looks before their eyes were once again trained upon her. Tywin Lannister. Her mind immediately took her to his powerful and intimidating entrance in the throne room atop his white destrier, dressed in his steel plate armor enameled in deep crimson and highlighted with gold. But the image was not followed by the same feeling of dread, but bitterness and regret and she refused to travel that path again. She focused harder - what was it about Tywin Lannister that made her lose control of herself to such an extent? 

But then she knew. The North. The North as it was right then and there was not the same North as it had been in the past, neither the future past nor the present past. 

Her father had kept his word, and the reconstruction of Moat Cailin was completed the impressive keep already manned and ready to receive it’s new Lord and Lady.

The roads throughout the northern kingdom had been enlarged and improved, while the newly appointed Ranger Guard patrolled them day and night to ensure that they remained safe to travel. 

The northern cities, big and small, were teeming with life and commerce, aided by the training camps that had been set up a few years ago by all the northern houses for the training of the recruits that would form the northern army. Sixty thousand northern soldiers, without taking into account the smaller armies held by the northern bannermen, that had been divided and appointed to train in camps lead by the masters at arms and guardsmen of the houses loyal to the Starks. Boltons, Mormonts, Kastarks, Umbers, Foresters, Glovers, Reeds, Tallharts, and even Dustins and Rysells have gladly and willingly answered her father’s call. The North had listened and now was preparing itself for war.

Ruthless, calculating and controlling, commanding attention wherever he went, Tywin Lannister was not a man to dismiss anything and his astute mind would surely see the north for what it truly was and not for how it had been portrayed in the southron territories. 

It was impossible for Sansa to think that Tywin Lannister would see all this, and fail to understand the truth. Adding to all this the matches her father set up, Tully, Baratheon, Lannister, and her family’s connections to the Vale, Tywin Lannister would undoubtedly come to the correct conclusion: the north was not going to remain on the outskirts of the seven anymore. And it terrified Sansa that she could not foresee what the reaction of the Warden of the West would be. What would the golden lion do with this information?

“Lord Lannister will see through our preparations father. Is it safe for us to assume that he will not turn the crown’s attention to the north?” 

Sansa watched her father sigh in relief, his tall frame relaxing as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He shook his head, his long strands of brown hair swaying to and fro with the motion.

“Any man or woman for that matter that does not fear at least a little the Warden of the North is not worth his salt,” he stated. “But what would you think about the same Lord Lannister’s eagerness for a match to be made between his heir and your sister, or about his refusal to accept the dowry I had intended to settle upon Lyanna?”

“He is desperate” Brandon supplied from his seat near hers, brows furrowed in thought.

“Not quite. It is my belief that Tywin Lannister had hoped that the Mad King would find his demise at the hands of House Darklyn while he has been imprisoned in the Dun Fort.” Her father corrected. “And when Aerys was rescued by Ser Barristan and returned - madder than ever, the king correctly made the assumption that his hand did not act neither fast enough nor decisive enough in order to free him from his captivity. And now he would not even meet with Tywin Lannister without having his Kingsguard present.”

“So Lord Lannister’s position as hand is not secure and he needs to distance himself from the Crown while finding new allies in the case Aerys retaliates,” Brandon said, his fingers lightly tapping his chin. 

“Not if, but when” Sansa added. “And which better house to ally himself than the one that has recently reached out to other great houses and made alliances with the Stormlands and Riverlands. It was Tywin Lannister who proposed the match, wasn’t it, father?” Sansa asked with sudden understanding as the whole image clicked into place. Of course Tywin Lannister would see what was happening and try to ally himself to the new power block forming.

Her father nodded slowly as he continued to watch them proudly as they worked out the truth from the information they were being provided with.

“He already knows, doesn’t he?” Brandon stated more than inquired, having arrived at the same conclusion as Sansa had, only a few moments earlier. 

Their father’s booming laugh resounded loudly through the room, echoing through the halls, his dark grey eyes shining brightly in the dimmed light of the setting sun.

“That he does, my dear children, that he does.”

It was nothing more than what she should have expected from a man such as Tywin Lannister, head of House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, and Warden of the West. And Sansa shivered in anticipation, her mind whirling at the implications of a young and determined Tywin Lannister on their side. _This changes everything._

Sansa waited patiently alongside her family as the Baratheons and some of their most important bannermen entered Winterfell. It was a considerably larger party than the last one, as notable lords and ladies from houses such as Connington, Dondarrion, Estermont, Selmy, Swann, Tarth, and Wylde accompanied their liege lord to celebrate the marriage of his second-born to the Stark girl. 

She caught a glimpse of her brother’s destrier before her eyes were drawn to Stannis’s imposing figure clad in black. She watched in amusement as he impatiently dismounted and adjusted his heavy travel cloak, before making his way directly to her. Disregarding the proper formalities and courtesies, he was at her side in a matter of moments and wrapped his arms around her in a tight, almost crushing hold.

The world around her faded as she slipped her arms around him and burrowed her nose in his cloak. He smelled of horse and sweat and his dark cloak was full of dust from the road, but he was warm and solid beneath her fingertips and to Sansa, it was all that mattered.

Brandon’s bark of incredulous laughter from her father’s side resounded loudly in the courtyard. She felt herself blush as Stannis went rigid with shock in her arms before he reluctantly let her go and took a few steps back. His face was contrite, determination mingling with shock and chagrin as he took in the amused faces of her father and elder brother.

Her eyes instead traveled to his parents, taking note of the Lord and Lady Baratheon’s shocked stares and Robert’s dazed countenance. Even Ned was looking at her incredulously as if he had never seen her before.

“I believe we can dispense with the formalities” she heard her father state and Sansa did not need to look at him to know that he was barely containing his laughter. “Lord and Lady Baratheon, welcome to Winterfell” and motioned with his hand in invitation towards the entrance to their home.

She watched as Brandon clapped Stannis on his back several times, unable to form any word as he was still shaking with silent laughter. He gulped several deep breaths of air and shook his head “Oh, you’ll do just fine, Baratheon, just fine!” before chocking up with amusement once more. And Stannis stood there in discomfort, resembling a startled deer caught in a trap.

She glared at her brother, before returning her attention to Stannis and extended her arm to gently brush against his. He breathed a sigh in relief and offered his arm for her to slide her own hand delicately under his, curling her slender fingers back over it.

“I think you have just won Brandon over,” she murmured, as they made their way into the keep, following their parents’ footsteps.

Stannis nodded once before he swallowed loudly and brought his free hand to rest atop hers.

“At least something good came out of this” he roughly stated before clenching his jaw in frustration.

She stopped at the sound of his grinding teeth bringing him to halt as well, her left hand lifting to gently rub his jaw with the tip of her fingertips, intent on easing the pressure.

“I have missed you, my husband” she whispered in his ear, voice low and husky.

His eyes darkened and his jaw relaxed as he rose his hand and brushed his knuckles down her cheek. “Not yet.” his voice, a hoarse whisper. “Not yet.”

She smiled then, knowingly “Not yet, but soon” and inclined her head towards their destination - Winterfell’s Great Hall, eyebrow arched in a silent question.

Stannis nodded his acceptance and picked up the pace as they made their way through the halls to the table arranged for the Baratheon and Stark elder children. 

“You need to help me keep an eye on Brandon,” she said while taking a seat and turning her head to watch as Brandon entered the hall as well. “He has not forgiven your brother and I fear that the slightest provocation would overpower his reason and make him do something regrettable.” 

“Like pounding that good for nothing great oaf into the ground, sweet sister?” Brandon cut in while plopping down unceremoniously to Stannis’s other side. “No slight intended, Baratheon, but your brother is a nasty piece of work.”

“None taken, Stark” Stannis answered, while the corner of his mouth rose in that uptick smile he rarely bestowed on anyone other than her.

Brandon grimaced, the look in his icy grey eyes seemed conflicted for a moment before it steeled in resolve.

“Brandon, my name is Brandon and I think it’s time you use it” he deliberately stated, “after all, we are going to be brothers before the sun sets on the morrow...”

“Stannis, then” her betrothed answered with a sharp nod and another Stannis smile.

Sansa smiled softly at them - the awkward and difficult men she deeply loved, the warm glow of contentment filling her heart with peace. 

Discounting a few glares directed by both her brother and her future husband at surprisingly subdued Robert, the evening passed in quiet and comfortable companionship.

  
  


“Sansa?” Lyanna’s voice sounded unsure as she hesitantly made her way in her bed-chamber and seated herself on the bed. “Can we talk for a few moments?”

Sansa rose from the vanity where she had been in the middle of brushing her hair before going to bed for a much needed good night rest.

“Of course” she answered while joining her on the grey coverlet stretched over her bedspread, and motioned with her arm for her sister to continue.

“You fell in love with your betrothed, haven’t you?” Lyanna asked, straight to the point.

Sansa nodded, her heart filling with sympathy for her sister’s plight.

“When did you… I mean how did you... That is he is…” she trailed off unsure how to continue.

“Just speak your mind, Lyanna, and I promise that I will answer truthfully, to the best of my abilities.”

“He is not comely!” she blurted out after a few moments of silence, her eyes widening in horror as the realization of what she had said and to whom sank in.

Sansa was shocked into silence. 

Was her sister really that shallow? She felt her head starting to ache and she lifted her fingers to gently rub at her temples in a circular motion. 

Of course, her sister was this vain and shallow, after all, she had escaped her duty in the future past by running away with Rhaegar - the _married_ Targaryen prince, already a father of two small and innocent children. A man that had abandoned or better said will abandon his living children and wife, disowning them only to marry her sister. What kind of man does that? 

_“The prophecy, little wolf, remember the prophecy”_

Sansa sighed feeling the dull ache increase to a throb.

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder” she murmured while sending an icy glare to her chagrined sister. “Stannis might not be what some would call traditionally handsome but his looks are pleasing to me, Lyanna.”

Her sister stared at her for a few moments before shrugging dismissively “Well you have always been strange, Sansa it’s no wonder your taste in men is as peculiar as you are.”

“Lyanna, a wise woman once told me that all men are beautiful and that you just have to look hard and find that beauty for yourself.” Sansa tried again, remembering the words spoken in another life by her old septa. 

“Is that what you did with your own?” her sister inquired curiously.

“I did not have to. I have no complaints about my betrothed’s looks. As I have already said, to my eyes Stannis is handsome. Very much so. But Lyanna, appearances can be deceptive and should matter the least when choosing or accepting a husband,” she continued. She knew all too well how looks were able to deceive - the faces of Joffrey and Cersei flashing in her mind in quick succession. 

Lyanna snorted, wrinkling her nose in disapproval.

“Let’s think of it like this. What did you know about the Baratheons on Storm’s End before they arrived at Winterfell?” Sansa asked and waited patiently for her sister to answer.

“That they were an honorable and righteous house, that their words are “Ours is the fury” and that you were supposed to marry the middle son.” her sister summarized.

“Very good” Sansa nodded in approval “ And what was your impression of Robert when you first saw him?”

“That he was very handsome and that you should marry him instead of his brother.”

“And what did you think of him the same day but after the feast?” she pushed forward.

“That he was a lecherous oaf that should have kept his loud mouth shut.” 

“Very well. And now let’s look at the whole picture. On one side we have Stannis - quiet, serious but honorable and honest. On the other side, we have his brother. Which one would _you_ choose for a husband?”

“Oh!” Lyanna suddenly exclaimed.

“You see, there is so much more that makes a person beautiful than how he or she looks like,” Sansa continued before raising to her feet to pace the length of her room forth and back. “Furthermore, we all have different expectations and preferences, likes, and dislikes. For example, while I might want a stern and serious man, you might want a loud and funny one, while I have a preference for dark hair, you might have one for blonde or brown or even red.” She stopped only to stare a moment at the fireplace before concluding “So you see, there is no possible way to measure beauty as it all depends on what it _feels_ beautiful to _you_.”

“Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder” her sister repeated her own words back, lost in thought.

“Yes. My only advice is to keep your eyes and heart open. Do not jump to conclusions, just give yourself time to get to know Jaime Lannister and see if he can be a good husband to you.”

Her sister nodded her understanding and acceptance. “Thank you, Sansa. I will leave you to your rest.”

And as she watched her sister leave, Sansa couldn’t help but hope that her words made some sort of lasting impact on her. The Lannisters were set to arrive tomorrow - according to the ravens sent by the rangers, and perhaps her intervention was enough to make her father’s plan still stand after the duration of their visit comes to an end.

To Sansa’s relief, Cersei Lannister was blessedly absent from the Lannister party. It wasn’t that she feared the wretched woman, because she didn’t. She had lived through horrors that made Cersei Lannister seem like a spoiled child in the midst of throwing a tantrum for not having her way. But still, she wouldn’t have _liked_ the idea of having that woman’s presence mar the happiest day of her life. 

The Lannister group that arrived earlier that morning was smaller than what Sansa had expected, in light of the Lord Lannister haste to reach the North in time for the wedding. Sansa made only a brief appearance to greet their guests before returning to her chambers to prepare for the evening celebrations. But even this brief encounter was sufficient for her to discern that last night’s discussion had appeased her sister enough to calmly if not begrudgingly greet her betrothed and to ascertain that Jaime Lannister was no more accepting of the situation than Lyanna was. Lord Tywin’s cautioning and incensed looks aimed at his son were even more telling than Jaime’s sullen and miserable countenance.

_This was so not going to end well_ , Sansa thought to herself while leaning her head back to rest on the edge of the tub. She closed her eyes and let the earthly floral scent of lavender surround and relax her senses. She could already see countless ways in which the situation would spell disaster, for both the wolves and lions alike, but there was a time and place for everything, and worrying about the future could wait for a few days. 

After finishing her bath, she moved near the fireplace, allowing the heat of the flames to dry her hair into red tendrils that fell in curls around her shoulders. She rubbed lavender oil into her skin with small circular motions and donned her smallclothes on, followed by the white silk shift that was laid on her bed and a grey dressing gown.

She walked to the sitting room where a small meal of dried fruits and meats awaited her and forced herself to eat a handful of nuts and dried grapes. Although not hungry, she was aware that she needed sustenance in order to keep her strength from failing her later in the evening. Nothing was going to prevent her from enjoying the beginning of the rest of her life to the fullest.

Sometime later, her relaxed musings were interrupted by the sound of the door opening and closing, as one of her maids entered her rooms. She glanced through the window and noticed that the sun had already begun its descent into the western sky, so she rose and made her way to the bedroom where she slipped on her wedding dress. It was an ivory dress with long lace slaves, it’s bodice covered over with a panel of ornate myrish lace and freshwater pearls that clung her upper body like a second skin, only to fall from her hips in a waterfall of silk.

Her hair was brushed, braided, and piled atop her head with silver snowflakes pins in a complicated updo, while small tendrils were left to curl gracefully around her face, softening her look. Her chain necklace was replaced - for the first time during this lifetime, with a string of milky white sweetwater pearls that shimmered in the red light of the fireplace.

There was a knock at her door and she watched in the mirror as her father entered the room, dressed in a dark grey doublet, a silver dire wolf embroidered on its velvet. He stumbled a few steps before coming to a halt to rest his eyes upon her.

“Look at you, my little girl. You look -- stunning.” 

He had a proud look on his face and his eyes were bright, glistening with unshed tears. 

Sansa rose from her seat in front of the vanity and smiled widely at him. “Thank you, father.”

Her maid smoothed out the folds of her skirt and fastened around her shoulders the dark grey cloak that bore the sigil of House Stark, before leaving them alone with a small courtesy.

“It’s time.” her father said and extended his left arm for her to rest on her own, only to pull her in a tight embrace with shaking hands.

The setting sun shone its soft orange light upon them as they slowly made their way to the Goodswood and the Heart Tree within. There were unlit torches placed along the road, ready to lit and warm the falling night, and she could already see the crowd of her father’s bannermen and guests looking on as they approached.

But Sansa’s gaze was drawn to the solitary shape that stood straight as an arrow and still underneath the canopy of red leaves, all dressed in black velvet. 

His stiffness belied the awe and wonder that shone in his stormy blue eyes as they rested upon her face the moment she finally joined him under the Weirwood Tree. He swallowed loudly once and then cleared his throat.

“Who comes before the Gods?” His voice was raspy but otherwise strong and steady.

Her father answered “Sansa of House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?” 

“Stannis of House Baratheon, I claim her. Who gives her?”

“Rickard of House Stark, who is her father.” Her father turned to her. “Lady Sansa, will you take this man?” 

Her icy blue eyes rose to meet his, a smile dancing on her lips “I take this man” she affirmed, her voice clear, steady, almost commanding in its intensity.

Her father stepped back and Sansa’s hands reached for Stannis’s, the simple touch of skin upon skin sending trails of shivers down her body. Suddenly shy, she lowered her eyes down to where their hands were joined, as heat spread through her body. His larger hands tightened their clasp on hers before they gently tugged her towards the ancient tree of the gods of old, at the foot of which they knelt and bowed their heads.

_Please, please give us your blessings and make it last!_ Sansa prayed desperately, fervently, as she had done for more than a thousand times, ever since she woke up to this new life. _Please make it last!_

The weirwood’s carved red eyes stared down at them, eyes bloody but all-knowing, and it’s leaves rustled as a sudden gentle breeze passed over them, reminding Sansa of the whisper of a promise: _“All will be well, our chosen! Fear not the future, little wolf, focus on the present!”_

She felt Stannis twitch and give another light squeeze to her hand before releasing it, and then they rose to their feet. He gently unclasped her maiden’s cloak, removing it and setting it aside, only to place the Baratheon black and gold heavy velvet around her shoulders.

It was done. She had finally married the man she loved. The reality of it crushed into her like the thunder through a storm, and her heart filled with love and joy and happiness that she could not have tried to stop the happy laugh that escaped her lips not even had she wanted to.

Stannis smiled at her - that smile uniquely his, and then he cupped her face with his hands before lowering his head for his thin lips to find hers. It was sweet and warm, a promise of things to come, only much too brief.

His smile widened a fraction and then he smirked, before bending to slip his arms under her body to lift her into his arms. She could feel his muscles tighten and strain under her weight, but he stubbornly clenched his jaw and kept his eyes looking ahead, focused and intense, as he began to carry her towards the keep under the already lit torches that illuminated their path.

Throughout the feast, Sansa was highly aware of his overwhelming presence at her side, the silence between them stretching and creating a bubble of warmth and expectation around them. She accepted the many well wishes from their guest without really registering a word they said, the anticipation of the night to come sending her thoughts in a frenzied whirlwind. Thankfully there would be no bedding - her father had already stated as much, promising to deal with the other lords after they retired to her - _no,_ _their rooms._

She watched as the men and women, dressed in their finest silks, satins, and velvets, drank and feasted, and longed to leave all this behind and just be with her husband. She understood the necessity to spend some time at the feast, but the hour was drawing close to midnight and she had already waited far too much…

As if reading her mind, she felt Stannis shift in his seat before his hand reached for hers. She turned her head and his eyes bore into hers, an eyebrow arched questioningly. Sansa nodded in assent and rose from her seat just as he stood up as well. Without drawing attention, they discretely made their way to her former rooms, rooms that they would share for the night before leaving Winterfell to take charge of Moat Cailin, their new home.

Her bedroom was dimly lit, the flames dancing merrily in the heart, but it was warm and the familiarity of her rooms eased some of the tension building inside her.

Taking off her black and gold cloak, she set it on an armchair and turned her back to Stannis and whispered “I need help with the laces.” She felt her cheeks warm at the bold statement, but all thoughts left her as she felt him draw near in slow and steady steps, until he stopped just behind her, close enough to feel the heat of his body radiating from his chest and shoulder blades into her back. 

His fingers trembled slightly as they started to unlace her, deftly pulling at the strings that held her dress together. She felt her breath hitch and tremble as his fingers ghosted down her back, slowly inching the ivory fabric down until it fell at her feet in a flurry of silk. 

Her heart pounded in her chest as she turned around. Her fingers rose of their own accord to unfasten his doublet, brushing her fingers over the thin dark shirt that covered his broad frame. She felt the muscles of his chest ripple underneath her fingertips and then rise and fall with his sharp intake of breath, as she lifted the material up to reveal the long expanse of flesh, already honed by years of training with a sword. 

Stannis lifted his hands to her hair to gently pull out a snowflake pin “May I?” he inquired softly.

She nodded, and he pulled her closer still, undoing the pins and allowing her long fiery tresses to fall in a curtain over her shoulders and back. He placed the pins on her vanity, and then his fingers glided through her hair, down to her shoulders, where they rubbed over the thin straps of her shift, before pushing them down her shoulders and arms.

Sansa smiled faintly and lifted her arms to wound them around his neck, pulling his head down to meet his lips in a kiss. He groaned in her embrace and deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing her lips before gently sliding into her mouth and gliding against hers in a dance they had perfect so very long ago.

He moved forwards, guiding her towards the bed, his lips never faltering to break their connection, as he seemed to want to taste every corner of her mouth. She felt his arms unlace his breeches and pull them down, just as he lowered her on the cool bed sheets. She shivered as they touched her fevered skin, and looked up to see Stannis looking back at her, taking her in. His intense gaze traveled the length of her naked body, from her bright eyes, flushed cheeks and swollen lips to the increasingly fast rise and fall of her breasts, down to her stomach and the red curls covering her mound. 

He swallowed audibly and joined her on the bed, his tall frame covering hers as his lips met her skin, leaving a trail of warm wet kisses from her neck to her breast. Sansa felt her body tremble as heat coursed through her veins, and her tights drew closer in search of the friction needed to release the coiled tension of her center.

She moaned and her whole body shook as his mouth fastened on her breast, his teeth lightly grazing against the swollen pink tip before sucking it into his mouth, while his hand traveled downward, brushing against her stomach and cupping her mound, before sliding in to meet the wetness between her lower lips.

He grunted, his fingers spreading the moisture and centering his thumb on her already throbbing sensitive nub. He stroked her core, while he directed his mouth to her other breast, feeling her tremble and gasp his name, falling apart as pleasure spread through her in crashing waves.

He shifted his weight, as his mouth returned to her lips, drinking her gasps of pleasure, while he centered his weeping cock at her slick opening and pushed the turgid length inside her tight and warm sheath, inch by inch, breaching her barrier and settling deep in, where he stilled to allow her to body to accustom itself with his girth.

She tensed in pain at the intrusion but focused on his demanding lips and tongue that unyieldingly mapped her mouth and swallowed her gasp of surprise and discomfort. Sansa felt stretched to the fullest, her inner walls pulsing around his thick shaft, but the feeling of him inside her - claiming her as his own; dulled the pain to a slowly burning ache.

He was still like a marble statue above her, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead, his jaw clenched and his eyes tightly shut in concentration. She shifted a little and moved her hands to gently rake her fingers through his dark hair, gently scraping on the shorter hairs at their neck in their descent to stroke the planes of his back. She then tightened her thighs around him and undulated her hips, letting him know without words that she was ready for him.

He pulled back slowly, only to push back in and he shuddered calling her name in a raspy breathless moan. He rocked into her and she moved to meet his body with her own, the sound of their breaths and flesh sliding together filling the silence. Their movements were desperately sinuous and slow, gliding, and melting into one another as the pleasure increased at a steady pace and spread through them. The push and pull of want and need and love thrummed, thick and heady in shared desire.

Her fingers curved into his shoulder blades and she arched her body as she let herself drown into the slow burn of the fire running through her veins, as he continued to drive her mindless with his slow and purposeful thrusts until her world _finally, finally_ erupted with an incredulous gasp into an explosion of light and sound that overwhelmed her senses.

He groaned and picked up the pace as tide upon tide of pleasure washed over him, shooting down his spine and tightening his balls, as his member pulsed in her throbbing tight channel, pulling him over the edge. He tensed, jaw, and teeth locked together in a moment of suspended bliss before he hissed his pleasure, spilling his seed deep within her. 

Drained and still hazy with pleasure, he let his body fall down upon hers, supporting the bulk of his weight on his forearms, and carefully examined her face for any trace of pain or discomfort.

“Alright?” he rasped, his blue eyes searching for her lighter ones in question.

“Wonderful” she whispered while nodding with a small satisfied smile on her lips. 

He kneeled on the bed and twisted his body to reach for the washcloth that rested near the washbasin, soaking the fabric in water and wringing the excess moisture only to spread her thighs wide and clean the traces of semen and blood that painted her flesh. He repeated the action several times, making sure that she was clean, before taking care of himself and joining her back on the bed.

He pulled her close, and Sansa hummed in contentment while resting her head in the crook of his neck, one hand raising to lazily play with the sparse black hair that covered it. 

He turned his head to softly kiss her forehead.

“I love you” she murmured sleepily, basking in the feeling of warm bliss.

“As do I” he rumbled languidly beneath her, tightening his hold on her before succumbing to a peaceful sleep.

  
  
  



	6. Baratheons and Lannisters

Steffon Baratheon watched the lords and ladies gathered in the north to feast and celebrate his second-born son’s wedding. He relaxed his tightly strung body and closed his eyes to sigh in relief.

A few moments later, he opened his deep blue eyes, shook his head, and picked up the goblet that rested on the table only to swirl the sweet Summer Wine a couple of times before taking a small sip. He grimaced. It was sweet, almost too sweet for his tastes, as he would have rather enjoyed a glass of Dornish Red to match the bitterness that was slowly returning to consume his thoughts.

It wasn’t because of the wedding. He was excruciatingly aware that an alliance with the Starks of Winterfell was vital for the Baratheons of Stormlands. 

He grimaced in frustration and exhaled a puff of air in dismay. 

_The Baratheons of Stormlands, indeed._

Once the only Baratheons- until yesterday the only Baratheons. And now there were the Baratheons of the Moat or was it of the Neck? Or the Northern Baratheons, he idly mused, his fingers tightening their grip on the silver goblet, his distorted reflection looking back at him, grotesque and jagged.

The new northern Baratheons with their new sigil, a black stag on a blood-red weirwood leaf, set on a field of snow. _At least they kept the Baratheon name and the stag, although the crown was callously discarded._ The new northern Baratheons with their new words. Only thinking about those six words filled his heart with dread _“The hour of reckoning draws near”_.

Steffon shifted uncomfortably in his seat, as his eyes once more fell upon the proudly displayed new sigil that had been created by both his son and his bride, to the delight and glee of the northern lords and ladies.

Was this Stannis’s way of stating his shifted alliance? Renouncing all ties to the Targaryens - _his own blood,_ as new ties were formed to the North? What was the meaning hidden in the new house words? _He could not recognize his son in this new setting_ , but with a sudden insight, he wondered if he had ever truly known Stannis at all.

_A northern wedding for a new northern lord._

A wedding mired in strange customs, without a Septon to preside over, without the seven-pointed star in sight and without the blessing of the Seven. He would have considered it absolutely barbaric, had he not been present, had he not witnessed the eerie procession. 

He shivered and setting the goblet back on the table, he rubbed chin thoughtfully in recollection.

_Stannis had stood tall and unflinching as a marble statue under the sinister weirwood tree, with its bloody leaves and red painted eyes that seemed to watch the gathering crowd with all-knowing and forbidding eyes._

_He could feel the ends of the hairs dusting his forearms rise in uneasiness and turned around to watch the same discomfited look settle on his wife’s face._

_He looked at his heir, but Robert was non-plussed as ever, watching it all with a bored air on his face. He was startled to realize, after a quick glance, that he had the same look as Tywin and Jaime Lannister had. Steffon found this a little too uncanny and so he refused to dwell too much on it. No. Any resemblance between a Baratheon and a Lannister was a coincidence, he decided before firmly brushing the matter aside, as one would brush a speck of dust._

_The Baratheon bannermen that had been invited and were witnessing the wedding ceremony looked curiously around, their wide eyes taking in the start of the procession with interest and a hint of trepidation. Were they afraid that the girl would not come? Were they expecting for her to be dragged to marry his son, he wondered, brows furrowed in displeasure._

_He shifted and glanced at the Northmen._

_They stood tall and proud, much like his own second-born son, their eyes lowered in respect of their sacred place, patiently waiting for the arrival of Lord Stark and his eldest daughter._

_They did not have to wait for long before the Rickard Stark arrived with his son’s bride and his mouth dried up as soon as his eyes took the girl in._

_He heard Cassana gasp at his side and turned, just in time to see his wife raise a hand to cover her mouth as her eyes widened in shock._

_They had known that the girl was beautiful._

_They had often talked and wondered - in their bed, late at night; why a girl that seemed to not lack any accomplishment wished to tie herself to their sullen and awkward son. It wasn’t as if there weren’t better prospect available or even offered to her, and still, she was not be deterred._

_Rickard had made it clear from the very beginning that Stannis had been Sansa’s only choice and the fact that he could not understand why it was so, baffled Steffon Baratheon to no end._

_His bewilderment only grew tenfolds as he took her in, all draped in the finest silk and lace. Sansa Stark was ethereal. She glowed in the light of the setting sun, her unblemished white and smooth skin shimmered, her blue eyes shone and her red hair seemed set ablaze by the orange dwindling light. She was the most beautiful girl - no woman, he had ever seen and her brightness seemed only to grow as soon as her eyes met those of his son. She was breathtakingly beautiful, and with a small gulp of air, he tore his eyes away and tried to focus on something else, anything else._

_Cassana was gently sniffling at his side - her eyes watery, although a small smile was etched on her lips._

_Next to her, Robert was staring dumbstruck at the bride without breathing._

_He would have to remind his eldest later, much later - after the ceremony was done and over with, that if he did not behave according to his station, he would be betrothed to that Florent girl with the big ears. What was her name again, Senisse? Sedisse? No, that was not it. He thought with a frown. Selyse. Yes, Selyse Florent. This threat should keep Robert in check, at least until they returned to Storm’s End. Only then would he slowly and gently ease the news of his upcoming betrothal to Cersei Lannister. His son will not be pleased, as he had tried to convince him to push forward for a betrothal to Lyanna Stark - so that he and Ned would be brothers._

_Steffon snorted. As if Rickard Stark would ever agree to give his remaining daughter to the care of Robert Baratheon. His son had burnt any and all bridges he might have built during their first evening spent at Winterfell. It was plain for all to see that with the exception of Eddard Stark, no other Stark looked at his heir with anything else but barely concealed disgust in their eyes. Robert will have to resign himself and accept the only daughter of the Warden of the East as his bride._

_He grimaced and turned his body to the side, to covertly glimpse at the Lannister group._

_Lord Tywin’s eyes were carefully and methodically analyzing and deconstructing everything in sight, his brows furrowed in thought as they kept going forward and backward, from Stannis to his bride. Steffon followed his eyesight but did not see anything else but what he had already known to be there - his brooding son waiting patiently for his glowing bride._

_He shook his head in dismay, before inching his head to further look at Jaime Lannister. Lord Tywin’s son was also staring dumbstruck at the approaching bride before his brows furrowed and his head snapped to look at the younger Stark girl, utterly shocked. His head turned back and forth a couple of times, before a look of downright misery settled on his face._

_Tywin will have a hard time dealing with his son, he thought with a smirk._

_Lyanna Stark’s sullen and unhappy countenance when compared to her glowing sister, made the young girl look homely in contrast. And Jaime Lannister did not look at all pleased with his father’s choice._

_Steffon Baratheon grinned in amusement. Perhaps for once, Tywin Lannister will have one of his plans foiled, and by his own blood nonetheless._

_He turned his eyes towards the Stark party again only for his eyes to settle on the Stark heir._

_Brandon Stark had been known in the south for his impetuous and wild behavior, but Steffon had not seen anything even remotely wild about him during his two visits at Winterfell. He seemed to be a very well behaved young man, perhaps a little too serious and too concerned for his sister’s well being. But Bradon Stark was another baffling Stark that rounded Steffon’s list of mysterious or better said Starkish behavior. Brandon Stark was the third Stark - besides the father of the bride and the bride herself, that liked Stannis. And more curious, Stannis seemed to like him right back, as shown by the quiet camaraderie they had shared these last couple of days. And now, Brandon Stark was standing at Stannis’s side in front of the weirwood, a hand gripping his son’s shoulder in silent and calm support, a small smile on his long face as he watched his sister approach. Taking a place that should have been his own, by right._

_Once more he shuddered in unease at the influence these northerners had on his blood. What was it about these Starks, he asked himself for the thousand times, without expecting to find an answer to his conundrum._

_He watched the proceeding calmly, although the initial feeling of discomfort returned, as words were shared before of those unsettling blood-red eyes._

_He listened to the words and as the last rays of the sun caressed his leathery face, only for the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up again. They were being watched. But there was nothing out of the ordinary out there. Or, errr… more out of the ordinary than it already was. Everything was silent and calm, not a leaf rustled, not a bird chirped, and not a person focused on doing anything else than paying attention to the vows shared in the middle of the clearing. It was silent. Too silent, he mused before he turned to look around one last time. Suddenly, an unexpected breeze swirled around them, and the feeling of being watched by someone or something intensified. He shivered. Were these the old Gods watching them? He had never felt anything like this in the Sept and suddenly afraid, he bowed his head in respect and did not raise it up until the feeling had passed, just as the ceremony came at an end._

Yes, he would have preferred the southern customs to the northern ones, although Stannis had never been keen to follow any religion - at least until he had traveled North only to fall in with the tree worshipping faith of the old gods.

But Robert had taken care of that, and after his discourteous behavior Steffon would have agreed to keep the ceremony at the Wall had Rickard Stark asked for it to be so. 

He looked at his eldest son once more. He was seated next to Eddard Stark and drinking heavily, his face red and blotched. Perhaps it was time to bring him home and put a stop to his association with wolves, even quiet ones as this Stark boy seemed to be. It was time for Robert to do his duty to his family and their house, and issue a worthy heir for their lands. He only hoped that Cersei Lannister would turn out to be all that she was rumored to be.

  
  


* * *

  
  
“I will not have her!” 

Tywin Lannister sighed, shaking his head.

“And why do you deem it so?” he inquired, his voice hard, flat, and commanding.

It was the same voice that he had used what seemed like ages ago, to speak out against the wedding of his sister to Emmon Frey. It was the same flat, unflinching tone that delivered the Reynes and Tarbecks to their horrible ends.

“She’s insipid,” Jaimie whined, in a high pitched cry, his cat-green eyes pleading with him. 

Eyes so much like his mother’s. _Oh, Joanna, if only you could be here, now._ His heart clenched in sorrow but he refused to give in to the pain even the mere thought of her brought him.

“I see.”

“Why must you always choose the uglier second-born one?” he continued, giving his father a side-way glance, his eye narrowed in disgust. “It’s rather clear that the looks always go to the firstborn.”

Tywin sighed in exasperation at his son’s mulishness and immature reasoning. 

How could he still not see that marriage was not about looks but about uniting bloodlines and houses, about building a strong legacy and powerful alliances?

But Jaime did not seem to read his father’s mood well, so he continued. “I would have happily accepted Catelyn Tully but Brandon Stark got there first. No hard feelings.” he shrugged with a dismissing gesture of his hand. “I would have been overjoyed to be betrothed to the pretty Stark sister but instead, I get the scowly horse-faced she-wolf. I will not be outdone by that broody and sullen stag! I am a Lannister! I deserve the best!” he rattled on to the increasing displeasure of his father.

“Enough!” Tywin hissed, his fist hitting the table in frustration.

_How come his eldest still could not see what was at stake here?_ He wondered, pinning his son down with his pale green eyes.

“I did not betroth you to Lyanna Stark because of her comeliness.” He furiously stated through clenched teeth, eyes ablaze with unconcealed anger. “The blood of kings runs through her veins, an eight thousand years bloodline that has survived since the Age of Heroes.”

“But father!” Jaime whined again.

“We need the North. This is not up for discussion.” Tywin continued with authority. “It’s either Lysa Tully or Lyanna Stark, and you have not made yourself well-liked in the Riverlands with your dismal behavior towards the Tully girls.”

Tywin Lannister had not been happy with his son ever since his return from Riverrun. The son he had sent to squire with the Tully Knight, although talented with a sword and gifted in combat, had returned with dreams of knighthood and bravery and chivalry and _oaths_. 

He mentally sneered at the thought. He knew all too well how little oaths counted when faced with the reality of life and men. He had learned it a long time ago while watching Roger Reyne, Lord of Castamere, laugh at his father edicts and Lord Walderan Tarbeck of Tarbeck Hall riding to confront his father when called upon to repay the gold Tytos Lannister had lent out. What good were oaths and honor in real life when men so easily dismissed them at their own convenience? 

In the beginning, he had tried to subtly change his son’s opinions but Jaime was not made for subtlety. Once he had reached this conclusion, he had brutally and forcefully explained to him why he had acted as he did to restore his family prestige and honor. He had also told Jaime about Aerys’s attempts to rape daughter after daughter into Rhaella’s womb, as the Kingsguard stood watch, silent and unmoving. He had made him face the harsh reality of the oaths sworn and not honored, simply because there were so many of them, marred in contradictions. He had even told his son - as much as it pained and humiliated him, about his mother’s abuse at the hand of the same King and how he suspected that Tyrion was not of his blood. 

Oh, how his hot-blooded son had raged in horror at this, blaming him for failing to protect Joanna, only for his rage to turn towards its rightful place - the King of the Seven Kingdoms. 

“Jaime, you must have understood by now that your place is in the Westerlands, at Casterly Rock.” Tywin slowly and clearly stated. “You will marry the Stark girl upon her seventeenth birthday, and you will do your duty.” 

“Yes, father” his son muttered sullenly.

He had to speak with Genna and Kevan, Tywin thought to himself in dismay. His sister and brothers had coddled his children too much and now he could barely make them see sense. First Cercei, with her outburst of anger at his failure to make a match with the Targaryen Prince and now Jaime. He did not even recognize his children anymore. In addition to this burning disappointment, his utter humiliation at the hands of Aerys still gnawed at him, amounting to many sleepless nights. 

_He would not become his father. He would not be Tytos Lannister reborn,_ he seethed in anger. _And Aerys… Aerys will fall._

“We are on the brink of war, Jaime, you know this.” Tywin sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “We are on the brink of war and we need strong, powerful allies. The Stark girl brings the North, the Riverlands, the Stormlands, and the Eyrie. And with them, we will bring our vengeance to the Targaryens, once and for all. A Lannister always pays his debts.”

“Yes, father” his son seemed less belligerent now, more accepting.

Tywin Lannister watched Jaime in silence for a few moments - the silence of his rooms in Winterfell felt too heavy and uneasy. Jaime seemed deep in thought, his bright green eyes alight with understanding.

“And Jaime,” he interrupted his musings, before rising from his seat in front of the fireplace “You do not have to like the Stark girl, you just have to bed her and issue sons and daughters.” he finished, as he left the room to return to the wedding feast.

He could not really blame his son, after all, Tywin thought to himself as he made his way through the stone corridors towards the Great Hall. The youngest Stark girl _was_ a disappointment and in truth, he would have preferred the poised, proud, and exquisitely beautiful older girl himself. 

Nevertheless, Sansa Stark was already taken, married, and most likely already bedded, judging by the rush in which she and her new husband had left the banquet. It came as a surprise, at first, the realization that the Baratheon - Stark union was a love match, but the more he thought about it, the more right it felt.

His interactions with the bride had been limited, as they had arrived rather late for the wedding - the travel through the Neck had been more difficult and arduous than expected. But he had exchanged some words with the groom and Stannis Baratheon had managed to impress him with his seriousness and insightfulness. He was so unlike the boisterous Steffon - always so light and flippant, failing to treat anything with due consequence until it hit him in the face with the force of a falling Warhammer. He did not exude the same importance as his sire did, importance based on nothing else but the blood ties the Baratheons held to the reigning dynasty. 

_Targaryen blood_ , he sneered in disgust, _seeped in incest, birthing madness after madness, a legacy of abominations._ Mad Kings like Baelor the Blessed, the madman who starved himself into an early grave because of his prolonged fasting to cleanse himself of lust; or Aerion Brightflame, who died drinking wildfire, believing it would turn him into a dragon. Abominations like Maegor the Cruel who used Balerion to burn down a Sept filled with worshipers inside, and used archers to kill those who tried to escape; or Aerys the Scab King with his jealousy, hallucinations, violence, and fascination with wildfire, setting anyone who displeased him aflame.

But for every up there was a down and for every high, there was a low. And the Targaryens no longer possessed dragons to submit the seven kingdoms to their will. The down and the low for their dynasty was approaching with neck-breaking speed.

As he entered the hall, the Shield of Lannisport grinned at the look of unrest and disconcert carried by the High Lord of Stormlands as he was staring at the new Baratheon sigil proudly displayed on the stone wall. It would do Steffon Baratheon some good to feel like a fish out of the water for once, and he fully intended to keep a close eye on the new pair and see them succeed. 

He slowly made his way to Rickard Stark, a small smile on his lips, and picked up a fresh goblet filled with wine from a passing serving girl. He rose the goblet in a silent toast, inclining his head in approval before he settled in his chair to observe the Braratheons some more. 

He was unbelievably satisfied with his rushed decision to come north. It was both impossibly amusing and incredibly informative he though and his smile never left his face for the rest of the night.

  
  


* * *

She woke slowly, the morning light filtering through the curtains and dancing on her face with playfulness as if intent to wake her up.

She stretched and hummed softly, feeling the solid presence of another body behind hers, warm and firm. A smile stretched on Sansa’s face as she heard him grumble a few words that she could not make sense of before two strong, muscular arms encircled her and pulled her close. 

She felt her husband burrow his head in her hair and inhale, only for him to shift and bring his lips to her temple where he bestowed a light kiss. His face was a little scratchy and she turned in his embrace, raising her hand to slowly ran it over the dark stubble on his face.

“Good morning, wife” Stannis rasped, his voice hoarse and low.

She smiled and trailed her fingers down his throat, watching it move as he swallowed a gulp of air, down to the planes of his chest and over the pectoral muscles that were covered in fine and sparse dark hair.

“Good morning, husband” she answered, and pressed herself closer to his warmth.

He lifted his upper body, supporting his weigh on a bent forearm, and inched his head to meet her eyes with his dark blue ones. Sansa could read an entire world of emotions in them. Incredulity mingled with joy at the reality of finally being together again, concern for her well being and not only for their union last night but also for their future, concern mingled with so much hope that maybe this time… 

Sansa shivered, her thoughts carrying her to another similar night so long ago, so similar but so different at the same time… 

They were older then, both him and her, scars marring both their bodies and their minds, both bitter and disillusioned. But what they felt even then, in the beginning, for one another, was sweet and tender, like the first taste of a warm lemon cake, filling their hearts with wonder and hope. She had learned, albeit slowly, to value a person for what they did and how they acted, for the mistakes they made and how they made up for them. She had learned to not put much weight on a person’s blood, birth, or connections, as all men - and women for the matter; had both the capacity for great good and for great evil and only the choices they made along the road of growing older mattered in establishing one’s personal worth. 

And Stannis, Stannis had been as much of a surprise to her as she had been to him. 

They didn’t fall in love instantly - as she had thought to fall in love should be like, so long ago. No, their love grew from their long discussions in candlelight while she had been tending to his wounds, not trusting anyone around them with his care. She still had her suspicions regarding Brienne and would not allow that woman to come even close to the ailing king. Their love kindled from their shared grief: the death of his only child weighing deeply on him, and preventing him from sleep; her treatment at the hands of the Bolton bastard waking her from the horrifying nightmares that plagued her fitful sleep. Their love grew from mutual respect that surprisingly came with bearing one’s soul to another and from acceptance of both the dark and the light that dwelled deep in their souls. She knew Stannis as well as she knew herself, and sometimes she felt as if he was an extension of her own self - or she an extension of his, both missing and complementary pieces coming together to make a person whole...

“Reminiscing?” she heard him inquire from above, his eyes glittering in amused understanding.

She huffed a laugh and nodded, stretching her body languidly under his.

He moaned deep in his throat and bent his head to capture her lips in a deep slow kiss, his tongue tangling with hers, and she felt her whole body thrum as heat pooled between her legs.

She lifted her body, pressing her bare breasts to his chest and shivered in anticipation, as one of his calloused hands moved to her ass and squeezed. 

She whimpered and lifted her hips, in search of the much-needed friction, as the burning sensation threatened to consume her. She could feel his lips widen into a smile, as he moved to kiss her under the jaw, the scratch of his stubble upon her soft skin only arousing her more, feeding the flame.

Sansa felt his body shift as his hand traveled to her mound, where he slipped a finger inside her only to pull it back and slid it up and down her slit. He repeated the maddening motions several times before her frustration grew and she could no longer bear it.

“Inside, please.” She whispered, her voice low and needy. “I need to feel you inside.”

He groaned and aligned his body to hers just as she parted her legs and moved her arms to encircle his broad shoulders.

She felt the blunt head of his hardness at her slit, moving up and down - the same slow and arduous trail that his fingers had previously traveled; and shivered in anticipation. 

He kissed her, his teeth biting and his lips sucking at her bottom lip, just as he entered her in one swift motion. She gasped and closed her eyes, the feeling of his swollen length stretching her tight and wet channel, calming the deep yearning of her body that wordlessly called for his.

There was no pain this time, although she was a little sore - her body not yet accustomed to house his length. Not yet. But as she felt him move above her, thrusting deep and filling her to the hilt, in slow and controlled moves, she rose her hips to meet his, to feel him deeper and longer, to sate the burning deep inside her that asked for more. More heat, more friction, more of his sinew body sliding against her, more of his fulness in her, more of him… Just more… More…

“Harder” she drawled in a deep throaty moan.

She could feel him tremble with restraint above her, as he lifted her legs to encircle his waist and she locked them there. She looked into his eyes - the blue almost black with the same wild and uncontrolled desire that blazed through her; as he came unto her - into her, fast and hard like a hammer, setting into a punishing pace.

She could feel her center tighten and coil, as the pleasure increased with each thrust and each grunt, and she whimpered and moaned - the sounds lost beneath the slapping of wet flesh hitting flesh. 

His fingers tightened on her waist, pulling her closer as he leaned slightly back, and she tried to meet his body with hers, but as the pleasure increased - bringing her just within reach oh her release; she could feel the control she had over her body slip. 

Just as she felt the fingers of his hand slide into her mound and press harshly on the bundle of flesh nestled beneath her lower lips, her breath hitched and her rhythm faltered, only for the world to explode in white. 

She trembled around him, still lost in a haze of bliss, and she felt him falter once, twice before he pushed himself into her to the tilt and stiffened, spilling his seed deep inside her womb with a drawn-out moan. 

Her trembling legs fell on the linen sheets and his followed hers - his weight comforting and safe. She embraced him, trailing her hands on his sweaty back, up and down his spine with languid strokes. 

His breathing was labored but his body was relaxed and lethargic. He rubbed his chin against her neck before he rose on a bent elbow to brush his thumb over her swollen lips and up her cheekbone. 

His eyes were light and joyous - the blue of his iris bright and vivid; and she reached up to kiss him, unable to hold back and contain the happiness that filled her heart.

They would have to get up soon and prepare to face the day After a small breakfast they would say their goodbyes and embark on the journey to their new home. _But it was still early_ , she decided as his tongue slipped inside her mouth to curl around her own. _It was still early, and the world could wait a little more._

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More into the thoughts and motivations of the Baratheons and Lannisters. Constructive criticism as always is much appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer:  
> Not mine, however much I would love for it to be otherwise. I just borrowed it for a little while, to daydream about what-ifs and could be’s. 
> 
> Be gentle, please, as English is not my first language and I have no beta. Constructive criticism is highly appreciated, though.  
> Next Chapter: coming up in a week


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